


Inside the Wallpaper

by RedSkittleQueen



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Gen, Psychological Trauma, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSkittleQueen/pseuds/RedSkittleQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is killing the children of Burgess. An unwilling Jack must join forces with an equally-unwilling Pitch to save them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**A.N:** I own nothing.

 

 **A.N#2:** Take care, people. Strong gore and violence.

 

.

 

Is it possible for anyone in Germany, nowadays, to raise his right hand, for whatever the reason, and not be flooded by the memory of a dream to end all dreams? 

–Walter Abish, _How German Is It?_

 

.

 

Inside the Wallpaper

 

.

 

It was the weekend.

Jaime Bennett ran out of his house convinced today would be the greatest day ever. The sky was flame blue, the sun was hot, and his brand new Keds flashed with each step. It was almost summer, which meant easy days of playing baseball, tag, and above all, no homework. He could feel the lure of freedom like a perfume in the air, sharp and powerful. Jaime slipped under the squeaky fence panel, cutting across Mr. Robert's yard with the stealth of a ninja. Mr. Robert acted like he hated kids, but Jaime thought he was just lonely. But summer vacation wasn't the only reason Jaime was grinning ear-to-ear: he was friends with Jack Frost, bonafide Guardian of Fun and Awesomeness. Since the discovery of the white-haired spirit Jaime was thrown into a world better than all the theme-parks combined. He had always believed in things like the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, even when the older kids at school scoffed and called him a 'baby-fag.' He didn't know what 'fag' meant, but he knew better than to repeat it in front of his mother. The names had hurt. A lot. But when he clapped eyes on the giant blue form of the Easter Bunny and the Sandman and the others, vindication had never tasted sweeter. He _knew_ something existed beyond the world of grownups, something magical and bright. There were dangers to that world too, of course; Jamie had seen first hand what Pitch and his Nightmares could do. But Pitch was gone, defeated, and summer was right around the corner.

The young boy took his favorite path into the woods, fishing his rusty old bike from the bushes. With the ease of years of practice, he swung himself up and kicked to a roll. The sloping downhill took care of the rest, and soon the wind was roaring in his ears. He yipped like a coyote the whole way down, pedaling harder to pick up enough speed to crest the upcoming hill. He knew every rock and root of the Burgess Park as if it were a well-worn book, knowing where to go if caught in a rainstorm or the best hiding nooks for hide-and-seek. He'd like to come here when the others were busy to daydream and imagine himself being a knight or superhero, just like the ones in Saturday morning cartoons. But now his daydreams included Jack Frost, that he was a Guardian like them, protecting the realm of children against the evils of the night.

Jaime's bike rolled to a stop at his favorite clearing, tire treads biting into the dust of the trail. It was his favorite because not a lot of people knew about it; the older kids thought playing with sticks in the woods was a 'baby-fag' thing to do, and Jaime only showed his best friends the spot. A few days after Pitch fled with his tail tucked between his legs the boy had shown Jack the clearing. Only then did he remember Jack had been invisible and probably already knew about the place. Even in his child's mind he felt uncomfortable, until Jack chuckled.

“It's alright, kiddo,” the Guardian had said, corners of his eyes crinkling. “It'll be my first time being properly invited.”

Jaime had beamed, eager to show his new best friend his secrets, only thinking afterwards there had been something sad about Jack. But his child's wisdom was not enough to comprehend the weight of isolation the winter spirit had suffered, so in time he forgot about it, embracing Jack's games and tricks with ever-growing zeal.

The white-haired teenager was nowhere to be found. Jaime wasn't worried. The Guardian would come eventually, and when he did, he would take fun to a whole new level of awesome. Maybe Jack would freeze the stream and together they would slide across, whooping and hollering, until day faded into evening. Jaime swung his arms around and around, pretending to be a heroic American pilot on a dangerous mission. The daydream morphed into him being a Guardian like Jack, except his powers involved throwing flamethrowers from his palm. He leapt from rock to rock, shouting _Bam! Bam! Bam!_ every time he scorched an enemy.

“Hello, Jaime.”

The boy whirled around, enemies and powers forgotten. For a single shining moment he thought he heard Jack's voice, but then realized the speaker was nothing like his friend. It was a little horse, no taller than him, its satin coat the colour of spilled ink. Its wavy mane was the same colour as its body, glossy in the sun-dappled air. It clip-clopped out of the bushes on tiny round hooves, regarding the boy with frank regard. For a brief instant Jaime thought the horse had eyes like boiled eggs, white and bloated, but then the moment was gone. They were a cheerful blue, friendly. The boy felt himself relax.

“You can talk?” Jaime asked.

The horse tossed its head and, incredibly, Jaime could see its mouth stretching in a smile. Its flat teeth were very white. “But of course, silly. Who else would be speaking to you?”

Hope flared within him. “Are you a Guardian like Jack Frost and the Tooth Fairy?”

It whickered with delight and pranced closer. It smelled like fresh rainfall and distant mountaintops, clean and sweet. “Yes, quite like them!”

Any friend of Jack Frost was a friend of Jaime Bennett. The boy admired the flowing muscles and the small tussled forelock. It never occurred to him conversing with a talking horse may've been a sign he was crazy. This was a world of Guardians and Easter Bunnies and the magic of possibilities. Nothing was beyond the realm of reality. Jaime accepted the nature of the creature before him as easily as putting on his Keds. “So, who are you supposed to be? Are you friends with the Tooth Fairy? Can you fly? What kind of cool things can you do?”

The horse pealed laughter. “I like your pizzaz, kiddo.”

Jaime extended a hand to shake, remembering too late he was talking to a horse. The voice was smooth and masculine, kind of like Jack's. It even called him 'kiddo', as Jack sometimes did. It was comforting. “I'm Jaime.”

The little horse tossed its head in what Jaime could only assume to be a shrug. “I'm a bit of this, a bit of that. Do you like riddles?”

It was Jaime's turn to shrug. “I'm okay at them, I guess. I'm hopeless with the crossword puzzles in the newspapers, though.”

The horse clicked its teeth in a chuckle, trotting a circle in a patch of sunlight. Its hide gleamed blues and greens and reds, like the iridescence crow feathers sometimes gave off when the sun hit them just right. “Not that kind of riddle. More like a surprise. Do you like surprises, Jaime?”

The boy's face lit up. “I love surprises!”

“'I love surprises,' he says. What a fiiiiine answer. You and I are going to be fast friends. Why don't you hop on and I'll take you to it.”

Jaime took two steps forward before pausing. He looked around, searching for the white hair and frosted blue hoodie of his best friend. The treetops were empty, the boughs swaying ponderously in the breeze. He bit his lip.

“I dunno . . . I was kinda waiting for Jack Frost. We were supposed to play together.”

The little horse whinnied. “Who do you think set up the surprise? Come on, he's waiting for us.”

Jaime grinned. “Really?” He took another step forward.

“We don't want to be late for the party now, do we? Hop on. It's something to die for.”

With the last of his reservations dying away, the boy went to the horse's side. Without thinking he extended the back of his fingers to its nose so it could catch his scent, like one would do to a dog or cat. The horse extended its little nose, its warm, humid breath misting on his skin and tickling his hairs. Jaime giggled. He'd ridden ponies before, last summer when Sophie asked to go to the carnival for her birthday. There were pony rides for two dollars. He liked the smell of the fat little animals, their skin musky and warm, their liquid eyes gazing at him beneath thick lashes. The horse before him exuded none of the carnival ponies' lassitudes: it was constantly shifting, flanks shivering, tail flicking, ears rotating. It stilled enough when Jaime stopped at its shoulder. The rainwater scent was stronger now, thicker, as if mud was mixed in. But this wasn't the good earth-smell of a springtime thaw, but the undercurrent of heavy, sloughing muck found in the bottom of trenches. Jaime's nose wrinkled, but he didn't want to offend his new friend. Its skin was cool, as if it had been sitting in a cellar. Fisting the mane near the withers and the other hand on the spine, Jaime hoisted himself up. _A little like a bike,_ he thought.

Jaime Bennett was still thinking about the connection between bikes and ponies when the horse's head twisted a full one eighty degrees around. The boy could only stare, open-mouthed, as the jaws parted. What had been equine teeth were now translucent and thin as fishbones. Ropes of gooey saliva spattered on his jeans. In a moment of insane clarity he could see little white bugs squirming in the liquid. He cried out in fear and revulsion and tried to get off, but to his horror found his seat was stuck fast to the horse's back. _A horse's head can't do that,_ he thought. This wasn't happening. He was sleeping, this a bad dream, just a—

 _Nightmare_.

Of course! The horse was Pitch's—this was Pitch's doing.

“I'm not afraid of you, Pitch!” Jaime shouted, but the horse-thing gnashed its jaws into a horrible, leering grin.

“It's just you and me, kiddo,” it said, voice like rotting seaweed, and the fear returned like a thunderclap. Its face turned and Jaime saw its eyes were white like poached maggots, oozing and bulging. The foul trench-smell was a noxious cloud. Jaime's breath whistled between his teeth, his lungs too afraid to pull in air. He tried to swat the muzzle away but in a move quicker than his eyes could register it swallowed his arm and bit down. Jaime screamed as a gout of blood spattered his face and shirt, white-hot agony coursing through him. The chewing sounds were horrible. He tried to climb off again. The horse head began to melt like taffy, stretching and ballooning until it was twice as big as before. Its jaws opened, bits of his own flesh caught between its teeth. Its dark throat yawned and inside was eternity. Jaime shrieked again as the mouth bit down, this time at his chest. Something was cracking and tearing inside of him but the boy couldn't feel anything anymore.

He ebbed, drifting on gray clouds of shock, until the long jaws closed over his heart and tore it out.

Miles away, a shard of pain lanced through Jack Frost. He gasped, clutching at his midriff. He landed on the ground, the momentary hurt fading as suddenly as it came. He frowned, looking about in suspicion. His first spontaneous thought was it was Pitch's doing, but that was foolish; the Nightmare King was deep in his lair, roundly beaten. There was no one here but himself. The forest around him was empty, the wind and the birds oddly absent for such a fine day. Jack breathed in deeply, smelling the rich aromas of the oncoming summer. Now with school almost done, the winter spirit would have all the playmates he could want, filling days with magic and fun abound. The familiar warmth that came with thoughts involving his new friends glowed in his chest. Being seen was the best thing that could've ever happened to him, he decided. To be finally part of something bigger than himself, no longer alone or on the outskirts.

Jack continued his way to Jaime's favorite spot in Burgess Park, flying high in the sheer blue of the sky. Several birds veered away when he approached them, sensing the bite of cold in their feathers. Jack laughed and swung away. Maybe today he'd take Jaime flying so he'd know how it felt too. The winter spirit landed in the spot Jaime liked to park his bike. Sure enough it was there, its blue frame flashing white in the sun. Somehow it had upturned, one of its wheels spinning slowly in the air. Jack smiled.

“Jaime! You there?”

The wind was his answer, slow and wistful through the conifers. _He's probably playing hide-and-seek,_ Jack thought. He tossed his staff from hand to hand and began to walk around, calling the boy's name intermittently. Jaime couldn't have picked a better spot. Very few people knew about it; they could have all the fun they wanted without interruption. One shot from his staff and the little stream froze solid. He hopped on it, sliding. He thought he saw something flash at the corner of his eye. He turned, grinning.

The grin died. His eyes widened with dawning horror as he saw a small lump of clothes.

_“Jaime!”_

In a single leap Jack was there, only then realizing he was standing in blood-soaked earth. He made a noise of deep disgust, a sound that fell away into frozen silence as he realized where all the blood had come from. He stared for a long time at the carnage, at the jagged ribs, at the pale face, seeing but not comprehending. He realized the buzzing in his head wasn't his imagination at all, but a cloud of shiny green flies. He thrust at them with his staff and they rose in a furious roar. One slash turned them all to snow. Jack turned back to Jaime's body, numb as ice. He slowly sank to his knees besides the remains of his first true friend, a part of himself withering like a frost-bitten leaf.

It was only later, when he was tenderly wrapping Jaime up, did Jack notice the tiny hoof prints.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Pitch paused what he was doing, shuddering under the sudden influx of power.

After months of hiding in his lair he had almost forgotten the delicious sensation fear brought him, and this one was more visceral than most. This was a child's mortal fear, fever-hot and bright as glass. Pitch basked in its soothing glow, feeling strength he'd forgotten flow back into his limbs. The Nightmare King flexed his fingers, lips curling as he tested the newfound strength. Messing with the Sandman's dreams had been fun; turning children's dreams into Nightmares had filled him with power, true. But what just happened was different. Terror in its purest form was something Pitch hadn't experienced in quite some time, not truly since the Dark Ages. He felt as if he'd scared a hundred children at once.

The Nightmare King glanced at the twisted bronze sheets of his globe, the familiar hatred niggling him. It was a constant reminder of his failure, but as much as he wished to destroy it, a greater part of himself whispered to keep it. The day may yet come where he could triumph over the Guardians and return fear to the world. The promise was tempting, like the allure of dark wine. It soothed the worst of his hurts as he licked the wounds of his defeat. He had lived long enough to know the tides would turn; eventually the Dark Ages would return, and the precious Guardians would remember what it was to fear the night. But as much as Pitch liked to dream, reality was a cold mistress. It had been months since he showed his face aboveground, his fearlings fierce and unyielding gaolers. They stamped their hooves and pealed, yellow eyes narrowing whenever he tried to slip past them. Pitch submitted to their rule only because he knew his strength would eventually return and they would once again fall under his command. That was the way of the universe, the great cycle of yin and yang, the never ending rise and fall of darkness and light. He was a patient creature. He could wait. His only regret was not being able to take his revenge sooner.

As he stared at the miniature world, it dawned on him one of the bright specks was absent. Had it been any other light, Pitch might've not noticed, but it wasn't any random glow: it had been the brightest one on the globe, a tiny molten sun. _Jaime Bennett, the Boy Who Believed._ Pitch's mouth thinned. It had been his sorest spot, the true cause of his downfall. But it was gone now, snuffed. At first Pitch couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. That boy had believed in the Guardians when all others had fallen away. The dark spirit leaned in close, brushing at the suddenly empty spot with his long, narrow fingers. He eyed his gaolers. They seemed oddly restless, throwing their heads and half-charging at each other. One tried to take a bite out of another other. The victim in question squealed, flattening its ears. The Nightmare King watched their antics. Did they, too, sense the change in the air? Could they feel the power of terror thrumming inside him? He began to make his way towards them, crooning appeasement.

 _“_ Easy, easy girls. Whoa, there, _shhhh_.”

As he expected all heads swiveled his way. He moved closer, his lithe frame threading towards his wayward charges, hands up in peace. One reared before falling quiet, blowing air. It trotted up to Pitch in a slithery whisper, dark tail swishing. It smelled of old fears, bitter as cellar dust, but to Pitch it smelled of comfort. He shushed at it, resting a cautious hand on its nose. When the fearling didn't buck off his touch he continued his exploration, running his hands down the flanks and neck, muttering compliments all the while. Others began crowding around, stretching their necks, their glowing eyes part of the darkness. Pitch let them, laughing, reveling in the burst of newfound power. One child's terror wouldn't be enough for him to show his face, not yet, not when the Guardians patrolled the boundaries so vigorously. But it meant fear had returned to the world of children, and with it, his hope of vengeance.

 

…

 

_TBC_

 


	2. ii

It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow. 

—Toni Morrison, _Sula_

 

.

 

“Jack! What happened to you? Why are you covered in blood?” 

“This isn't mine.” Jack's voice was dull. He could sense the other Guardians as if they were standing at the top of a long well and he at the bottom, chest-deep in freezing muck. It was hard to breathe, the weight of phantom water pressing down all around him. He didn't know how he managed to find his way to the Pole; he had blinked at Toothiana's bell-like voice as if waking from a dreamless sleep. He stared at the concerned faces of the Guardians and forced himself to say the next words. “It's Jaime's.”

Everyone started talking at once. 

“Jaime's? What d'ya mean, 'Jaime's'?”

“What happened?”

“Is Jaime alright? Was there a fight?”

“Tell us everything!”

They were crowding him, bunching, not letting him get a word in edgewise. Their mouths were wide and red, red like the inside of Jaime's chest had been. Jack slammed his staff on the ground, ice exploding several meters around. Two elves were caught in the blast radius and were instantly turned to icicles, their eyes darting like trapped birds. The Sandman had to leap to avoid being an icicle himself, slowly floating back down with the weightlessness of a feather while wagging his finger in silent admonishment. The other Guardians fell back aghast, their surprised silence ringing. The Yetis exchanged glances. Bunnymund was staring hard at Jack now, ears cupped to him. One paw twitched over one of his boomerangs. Toothiana placed a hand over her heart, as if to calm it. 

“Gosh, Jack. You didn't need to yell,” she said. 

Jack shook his head with an angry jerk. “Sorry.”

It was North who took charge, pitching his voice low, as if he were calming to a spooked animal instead of a blood-covered immortal teenager. “We not interrupt again. Tell us everything.”

With slow, wooden words, the youngest Guardian relayed what he saw, not sparing a single detail. He had tried to stop himself, truly did, but once he started the words poured out. They seemed too discombobulated to make sense; words like _Jaime_ and _ripped apart_ had no business being in the same sentence. But the blood staining his hoodie and hands were real. It had long since congealed on the winter spirit into the colour of dark rust. 

“His chest was open, like something had—had tried to eat his heart,” Jack said, before finally lapsing into quiet. The silence that followed was louder than any cacophony of questions. No one moved or spoke, varying degrees of horror and revulsion scrawled on their faces. It was Toothiana who broke the thunderous shock first.

“What,” she said, trying to be as calm as possible, but Jack could hear the blatant dismay in her voice. She coughed to clear her throat. “What did you do with the body?”

“I buried him. Didn't know what else to do.”

“Where?”

“In Burgess Park.”

Jack knew the mortal world had their burial customs. He started to breathe harder. What could've he done? It seemed just too cruel to leave Jaime like that, cold and mutilated. He fisted the front of his hoodie, right above the place where his heart had been. It was a hole now, surely, because he couldn't feel anything. He hadn't even cried since finding Jaime, not even when he buried the mess. He felt hollowed out, as if he'd inhumed a part of himself along with the boy. There was nothing but a boiling inside of him, the hole overflowing with scalding water. The rush of heat pounded his ears and stung his fingertips. He became aware the other Guardians were talking in increasingly loud voices, each trying to construct a plan of attack.

“—find out what we're up against,” Bunnymund was saying.

“I agree, but we need to find out what to do first,” North replied. “I say we—”

“We need to kill the thing that ate Jaime, that's what we need to do,” Jack said. 

The others turned and stared at him, as if surprised to find their youngest member still with them. The winter spirit stood up. The entire staff was rimed with ice, his knuckles white from the grip. 

“You sure you don't want to keep sitting down for a bit, mate?” Bunnymund asked, regarding him with the same expression he would a bomb with a loose wire. “You look a bit peaky.”

“I'm fine.” 

Bunnymund's skepticism was plain on his furry face, but the younger Guardian dismissed him. He kept his eyes on North, spearing the bear of a man with a glare to make him understand how serious he was. 

“Human or immortal, I'm going to find who did this and make them pay,” Jack said. The Sandman looked at him oddly. 

North nodded, again shifting in a soothing demeanor. “We'll do our best, Jack.”

Jack snarled and ground the butt of his staff into the floor, causing the air to drop another ten degrees. “Our best isn't good enough. Jaime is dead because I wasn't there to protect him. None of us were.”

Bunnymund frowned. He was openly holding a boomerang in a paw now. “You really need to calm down, friend. Before I do it for you.” 

Before Jack could shoot a nasty retort, a horrified gasp drew his attention. It was Toothiana, hovering in front of the globe on her gossamer wings. 

“Oh, no . . .”

The other Guardians hurried over. Jack followed behind, moving with legs made of molasses. Some terrible instinct told him what to expect. When he learned of the truth, he wasn't surprised. The burning in his chest stoked. The ice on his staff thickened. 

“ _Six?_ Six lights have gone out? It's happening all around Burgess. What does that mean?”

Lights went out all the time. Children were sometimes bullied out of their belief of the Guardians or embraced the rational world of adults. Some simply grew up, becoming old and jaded under the relentless drudgery of life. There were hundreds of reasons why a light was snuffed, but Jack knew this had nothing to do with belief. Something sinister was killing and eating children, just as it had done to Jaime. Hatred clicked its teeth within him, flowing from the hole like a dark ooze. Not even when Pitch killed the Sandman did he feel this amount of loathing. He welcomed its clarity, gnawing on its hard, unmovable shape in his mouth as he would a bone. He was so caught in his own brooding he almost didn't catch the sudden hush. Even the elves had stopped scurrying back and forth. The winter spirit looked up. His eyes thinned as he recognized the blue glowing from the dais. The Guardians crowded around. Jack moved closer as well, curious to see what the Man in the Moon had to say about this, vindicated that the normally hands-off creature was finally taking part in protecting kids. What he saw next, however, curdled his stomach. 

“Pitch?” he said. The unmistakeable lean form stood before him. Before Jack could say any more, a shimmering representation of himself stood alongside the Nightmare King. Jack fell back a step. “The _hell_?”

“ _Shhh_.” It was North, gazing intently at the near-corporeal figures on the dais. “Man in Moon speaks.”

This was ridiculous. The Moon should be giving them answers on what killed Jaime, not this. But Jack relented, grudgingly fascinated despite himself to see where all this would lead. The two shapes dissolved into the Tibetan plateau in southwest China. The scene zoomed into what appeared to be a graveyard and froze there, hovering. The scene was detailed enough to show stone mounds and peeking bones. Then as sudden as it came, it vanished, melting into nothing. Seconds ticked by. With mounting disgust Jack realized there would be no more. He could see what the Moon was trying to do, and it was not going to work. 

“No,” he said, before the others could speak. “Absolutely not.”

“Man in Moon wants you and Pitch to go together,” North said, voice a mixture of amazement and rebuke. “He has his reasons.”

“Is the Moon made out of cheese? Has he forgotten what Pitch almost did to you guys? He almost destroyed you. Now he wants us to go to him for help?” Jack didn't know whether to laugh or snarl. 

“Not us, _you._ Maybe Pitch knows something about this we don't,” the Guardian of Wonder said, his tone the verbal expression of someone trying to warm up to the idea. The others were watching closely, their heads following the conversation they would a tennis match. 

Jack ground his teeth. “If Pitch had anything to do with this, I'll kill him.” 

“We don't know till we ask, no?” North said. 

Jack said nothing, fuming. This was crazy. They all were. Jaime was dead and all the Guardians were talking about was Pitch and the stupid Man in the Moon. Everything was moving too slow. It was a mistake to come here, he realized. He should've gone after the monster that killed his friend the moment he saw the body. He glowered when Toothiana stepped up, her wings humming. 

“He wanted us to see that for a reason. He choose to speak. It's rare for the Moon to say anything at all, even after tragedies greater than this one.” She winced when she realized what she said, but held firm. “If for nothing else, do it for Jaime.”

That struck a chord. Jack lowered his head, defeated. “Fine. I'll do it.” His expression hardened. “But only for him.”

North nodded and rubbed his hands, the dual tattoos Naughty and Nice bulging on his muscular forearms. “We'll go to Burgess and try to figure out what we're up against,” he said. “You go to Pitch and try to bring him here. We'll meet together afterwards and see from there. Don't worry, Jack; we're going to stop this.” 

Afterwards, as Yetis were preparing the sleigh and elves were running like beheaded chickens, Bunnymund went to Jack. The winter spirit had not moved since the decision for him to go, standing as frozen as the staff in his hands. The giant rabbit rested a heavy paw on his shoulder. It took Jack a moment to realize the Easter Bunny was trying to comfort him. 

“I'm sad too, mate. We all are,” Bunnymund said in a tone far gentler than Jack had ever heard come out of that mouth. “You should go wash up.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, even though it wouldn't matter. Hands clean or unclean, the blood would be there. He would never un-see it. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Jack arrived at the entrance of Pitch's lair at sundown, the long shadows eating the last of the dying light. The wind had risen since the fateful morning and whined throughout the surrounding conifers. The remains of a bed remained littered all around, destroyed when the fearlings dragged their master down into the depths. Jack nudged several wooden shards with a toe, prodding the ground for the hole. When the butt of the staff touched softer soil, he aimed a blast of freezing air down its gullet. With a single explosion of earth and a blizzard's kiss the entryway re-opened, yawning deep. He was different than the first time he'd jumped down, no longer the vulnerable lost soul who didn't understand who he was. Baby Tooth wasn't with him to hold him back. Gripping his staff with two hands he jumped, letting the darkness swallow him whole. When he landed he was on guard for any Nightmares or traps, or even Pitch himself. He padded across empty stone arches and down silent flights of stairs, eyes scouring for a flicker, a sign, anything. He could sense something watching him from the blackness, watching his every intrusion with eyes that loved him not. Empty cages hung from their chains, not a single breath of stale air stirring them. They didn't help the dank, oppressive nature of the underground cavern. Jack gritted his jaws. It was taking too long. 

“I'm not in the mood, Pitch. Come out here.”

Jack forced himself not to jump when Pitch's bored voice slithered behind him. “And to what do I owe the vast displeasure?”

Jack whirled around, trying to place the dark spirit's position, but the voice seemed to shift and echo, first sounding near his left, then on the other side of the bridge. The Nightmare King himself was nowhere to be seen, hidden away in the shadows. The winter spirit walked to the centre of the bridge, right dab in a shaft of colourless light. He stayed there. “This isn't the time for games. You have to come with me to the Pole.”

A profound silence followed his words. For several seconds it stretched like taffy, elongating and warping into something else. Then a perversely delighted laughter filled the dismal lair. “Oh, is that so? Do enlighten me why.”

“The Man in the Moon told us.”

Pitch oozed from the darkness and stepped onto the bridge, tall and sinuous, metallic eyes glinting in the dead light. Jack tightened his hold on his weapon, half-crouching in case he needed to move quickly. As always Pitch reminded him of a poisonous creature, every gesture of the hand or tilt of the head fluid as oil and as alluring as a cobra's weave. Unlike the other Guardians there was something dangerous about him, an unhinged quality that tightened Jack's hackles and made him wary of hidden deadfalls. The last time the winter spirit saw Pitch he was weak, defeated, at the mercy of his fearlings. He had been carried away cringing and pleading, screaming _Please no! Don't!_ Now something had changed; the Boogeyman stood upright, coiled, every part the Nightmare King mothers warned their children about. Even his stride was confident, as if he had expected Jack Frost all along. His stared down his long nose at him in cool distain. When he spoke again the mirth lingered in his voice but it was harder now, depreciating, aimed to hurt. 

“You Guardians are so disillusioned. My old friend tells you all to walk on your hands and like good little parrots you do as you're told.”

“This isn't a joke, Pitch!”

“It wasn't meant it to be.”

Jack glared hatred at the sallow visage, hating the self-satisfied lift of his mouth, the tilt of the head, the hands clasped behind the back. The winter spirit had no time for this. The Man in the Moon didn't know what he was thinking, but Jack knew Pitch would be no help. Why would he? The Guardians were the reason Pitch had failed his world-domination. Ice crystalized up the staff's long handle. Pitch was quick to pick up on the hostile aura around the Guardian, gaze dipping to the weapon then back to Jack. His eyes grew shrewd. He appraised the immortal teenager in front of him, squinting. 

“You seem a bit off, Frost. You and the rabbit in a lover's quarrel?”

Jack snarled an unintelligent sound. Pitch clucked his tongue, _tsk_ ing. “Temper, temper. But you caught me in a particularly magnanimous mood, so I'm willing to indulge you. Give me one good reason why I should go with you to the Pole.”

This was his chance. Jack tried to reign in his emotions, stuffing them back in the hole in his chest with ham-fisted grace. He took a deep breath and said, “Something bad has come to Burgess, and you understand the nature of darkness better than we do. We need your advice on how to beat it.”

Pitch's eyes flashed. “I should join you because I've been defeated before, is that it?”

“No!” Jack said, but it was too late. The Nightmare King was rounding on him, sneering. 

“I'd love to help, truly, but I'm afraid my schedule is quite booked for the moment. Why don't you come back? In let's say, oh, never?” 

“Pitch, we have no time for games! Something is killing kids—”

“And making me regain my strength.” Pitch brushed nonexistent lint from his shoulder. “Why would I want to put an end to that?”

Jack stared at him, fury rendering him speechless. He wasn't hearing this. Even Pitch wouldn't be this cavalier over the destruction of innocent children. He needed them to survive, just like any other immortal icon. 

The Nightmare King read Jack's face like a well-worn book and shook his head. “You want a lesson in darkness? Done. If you really want someone like me on your side, you have to make me an offer I can't refuse. For instance, these children fed me their terror before they died. Make me an offer sweeter than that.”

The burning had returned to Jack's chest. Ice was crackling up his staff. He took a heavy, deliberate step forward. Pitch retreated one in turn, eying the weapon one would a chained dog. 

“You can shove your _offer_ right up your—”

“Hear that?” the Boogeyman said, cupping a hand around an ear. “That's the sound of your overstayed welcome. I do believe you know the way out.”

“Pitch!”

But there was no answer. The Nightmare King had melted away, leaving behind only darkness and dead light.

 

…

 

_TBC_

 


	3. iii

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.

—Ernest Hemingway 

 

_._

 

Jack burst out of Pitch's lair with the force of a skidding bullet, landing hard enough on a tree bough to crack it down the middle. Boiling water was trying to eat its way through his skin. A roar of snowflakes that had nothing to do with the weather knifed past his ear. He should've known Pitch wouldn't help. Worse, the dark spirit had taunted him, toying with his pain and making a mockery of the situation. When the business of Jaime's killer was over, the winter spirit vowed to make Pitch eat his words. The Boogeyman would soon learn what would happen to those who crossed Jack Frost's path. He guessed the others were back at the Pole, but the idea of dealing with them made his stomach knot. He wasted enough time. He kicked off the branch with enough force to snap it in half, rocketing into the air with single-minded determination. It was night now, the world tinged silver from the waxing gibbous in the sky. Jack didn't need light to know where he was headed. The fun-loving Guardian normally liked pulling off loops and stunts during his flights, but tonight there was no joy in him left; he zoomed straight for Burgess in gritty silence. When he recognized the town's clock tower and statues he dipped closer. He landed just outside the iron wrought archway of the Burgess Park. It had once brought him happiness to see the ornate metal bars, but now it brought him the sensation of coals searing his spine. Jack rubbed his chest, unaware he was doing so. He lifted his staff in a white-knuckled grip and entered the park. There were no signs of the other Guardians, but the winter spirit hadn't been expecting any. No doubt they were back at the Pole, disappointed neither he nor Pitch were there waiting for them. 

A still small voice whispered in his ear, _They don't care. Not like you do._ Toothiana had said it herself: they had seen tragedies greater than this one before. They were saddened and horrified at Jaime's death, yes, but they hadn't known Jaime like Jack had. To them he was just another casualty to the darkness. Jack was over three hundred years old, but they were centuries older. They had lost companions all the time. The winter spirit had seen faces come and go over the ages, but never had he lost a friend before. Jaime had been his first. The burning in his chest was a welcomed relief. He wanted to hate, wanted to feel dangerous. Maybe this was how Pitch felt when he attacked the Guardians.

“Any children-eating monsters out there? Hell-oooooo? Anyone?”

The wind was his answer. Jack switched grips on his staff, fully immersed in the hunt. Power thrummed down the length of his staff, ice forming in thick sheaves on the shepherd's hook. His searches took him deep into the forest, down the trails he and Jaime and the other children used to run. They were empty now, lit a dull silver from the moonlight. Jack stoutly ignored glancing at the Moon. He could rot for all Jack cared. It was he who sent him on a wild goose chase, wasting his time when he could be out hunting. The young Guardian shook his head. _Focus,_ he thought. The moonshine cast deep shadows. Every rock or bush could lurk his prey. 

The moon was at its zenith when Jack came across the Burgess lake. 'Lake' was a generous description. Eight hundred feet across its longest point, five hundred feet at its widest, and maybe three hundred at its deepest, the term 'pond' was best suited for it. Jack had avoided it the best he could, even when he played with Jaime. Since learning his teeth-memories he exuded a strong dislike around anything deeper than a stream. As an immortal he couldn't drown again, but still; the death-memory lingered as a phantom pain in his lungs, twisting whenever he perceived the silent, watery depths. He didn't even like the flat, fishy smell that came from ponds. He wrinkled his nose now, a sudden whiff of stinking black mud drifting towards him. It brought to mind gangrene and trench warfare, where limbs fell off bloated with gas. Jack pawed at his nose, wondering where the stench suddenly come from.

“Looking for me?” 

Jack spun around. There, in the half light of the moon, stood a horse. At least his first instinct told him it was one, but something was off, as if it was too stretched in some places and too short in others. The memory of Sophie Bennett's crayon drawing of a horse came to mind, where the head, body, and legs were included but all wrong. It was tall, taller than him, its neck bowed in an arch. Its eyes were the colour of milk curdles, reflecting none of the silver light from above. Its silken coat rippled in the moonlight, shining as if soaked. It pawed the dirt with a hoof the size of a dinner plate, clacking every time it scraped over a stone. Every breath it took rasped and bubbled, like a scuba diver with a bad ventilator. It quarter-turned, prancing like a show pony in the ring. On its back were the half-eaten remains of a child, legs and torso still attached to the sloping spine. The spine was peeking out, shock white. 

If it meant to demoralize Jack's resolve, it failed. The Guardian bared his teeth in a wolfish snarl and crouched, staff blue with compressed energy. “Yeah, I'm looking for you.”

The horse was already lunging when Jack unleashed an explosion of ice. Quicker than thought possible it dodged the tiny blizzard, skidding in the dirt. Jack went after it, lashing attack after attack with blinding force. Soon the area was covered in impaled ice spears and walls of snow. The wind was howling now, hail stinging exposed flesh. Several times Jack thought he heard screaming, but as he searched for the horse, he realized it was coming from him. The horse bucked and reared, but made no attempt to attack. It kept weaving in and out of focus, forcing the young Guardian to chase after it, its pealing cries spurring him on. Soon the air became so thick with snow and hail it was impossible to tell up from down. Snarling, Jack slashed his staff in front of him and a deathly hush descended upon the world. It was like walking in the Arctic after a tempest. Layers of glittering rime ice and snow decked trees minutes ago were in the full green of summer. The ground was covered in feet of snow, the grass and flowers frostbitten dead. Even the wind seemed frozen, not a single breath of air stirring. Jack walked unhampered, eyes darting for a sign of movement, a flash of teeth, a corpse, anything, staff humming with violence. He was so fully prepared for the horse that when he saw the small body in front of him all he could do was stare, uncomprehending. His brows knitted in disbelief. He squinted. 

“Jaime?” 

It couldn't be. Jaime was dead. But there he was, shivering in the cold, dirt smudged on his cheeks. If it wasn't for the the gaping hole where the sternum and ribs were crushed inward Jack could've imagined the boy alive. _This isn't happening,_ he thought, flinching, _this is a dream._ But the shine in the boy's eyes were too aware, his trembling too real. Slowly the Guardian found his disbelief slipping away. It was Jaime, back from the grave. Jack lurched forward, legs boneless bands of rubber. 

“You were supposed to be there to protect me,” the boy said, voice a reedy moan. “Why did you abandon me?”

Jack wanted to simultaneously to hug him and run away. He fell to his knees, stricken, the hole in his heart overflowing. “Oh, Jaime, I hadn't meant anything bad to happen to you.”

Jaime's eyes were accusing. “You killed me.”

“Never, I would never—”

“You did. You let that horse eat me and now I'm dead.” Jaime shuffled forward on stick-thin legs. He was close, closer than Jack had realized. The Guardian found Jaime almost within reaching distance. He could see the wound with bloodless clarity, could see the awful teethmarks from where something had chewed around the edges. Jaime smelled like an overripe tomato. Jack couldn't speak, watching helplessly as the dead boy drew nearer and nearer. _He's right,_ the still small voice said. _I killed him. He trusted me, and I let that monster eat him. I wasn't there, wasn't there._ He closed his eyes, feeling the world fade away.

_“Jack, look out!”_

Jack Frost looked up in time to avoid the runners of the sleigh. Jaime bared suddenly needled-teeth and hissed, eyes going bleach white. He spun around and began to run, his skin melting off like hot wax. Jack could only watch, transfixed, as Jaime morphed into a galloping horse. It thundered away, kicking up flurries of snow. The sleigh swung back around and raced after it, North roaring atop the helm. Jack forced himself to his feet. He picked up his staff and hurried after them, legs still weak. He was in time to see the horse punch through the lake's surface, disappearing into the water depths with a splash. The sleigh circled around, North shouting Russian oaths after it. With a horrible flash of insight Jack realized none of them would follow the horse into the water. Though they were all immortals and unafraid of drowning, both Toothiana and the Sandman's tactical advantage were aerial attacks. With his heavy furs North would sink to the bottom, his swords useless. Bunnymund hated getting his fur wet. As for Jack, fighting the horse in the open was one thing. Fighting it in the watery depths was something else entirely. His lungs ached with the ancient pain. He waited for the other Guardians to make their way to him, miserable beyond recounting. Shame made him avoid eye-contact. He gritted his teeth and looked away when he heard their steps crunch in the snow. He didn't want them to see him like this, made undone. He had been close to avenging his friend, then Jaime appeared and the universe had crumbled in on itself. Now the horse had gotten away, perhaps to kill again. Failure was bitter ash on his tongue. 

A warm hand found its way on his shoulder. Bracing for the disappointment sure to come, Jack looked up in the sympathetic blue eyes of their leader. North's nose was cherry red from the cold, his breath streaming in the night air. Relief entered the young Guardian but it held little comfort, like pale winter sunshine. Nothing was solved. Jaime was still dead. His killer was still out there. The Man in the Moon's plan had never made it past its fledgling stages. Jack had failed. 

As if sensing his spiraling thoughts, Bunnymund stepped alongside North. “C'mon,” he said. Hoarfrost lined his ears. He smiled a little at Jack, soft and sad. “It'll do us no good to stand in the cold.”

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Pitch had forgotten how exhilarating it was to ride a fearling. There was a forbidden thrill to rush in the night sky, feeling the phantom mare's iron muscles bunch and extend beneath his legs. There was power in that, the same power that flowed merrily in his limbs now. He threw back his head and laughed in abandon. The fearlings around him whinnied in response, galloping hard behind him. The Nightmare King tipped his head towards the Moon. His old friend was certainly one brick short of a full load if he thought he would work with the Guardians. He had been amused—curious, perhaps—but laughably so when Frost had made his offer. The child had extended the invitation with all the grace and diplomacy of a two-headed giraffe. The fresh, charged scent of a blizzard had hung about him like a mantle, his staff coated with a glistening layer of ice. It had been too much fun messing with the winter spirit's head. But all hilarity aside, Pitch _was_ interested in the cause of all the children's terror. Maybe offer congratulations. After all, it was the fear which had revived him so speedily. 

As he landed his fearlings in Burgess Park, Pitch didn't need a sharp grasp on intelligence to know Frost and the others had arrived before him. The fools had no concept of subtlety, though the dark spirit sensed most of this was the youngest Guardian's handiwork. It was a mess. Snowdrifts and twisting ice spears were littered everywhere. Branches were bowed and broken under the weight of rime ice. Flower beds were crushed. The wanton destruction was invigorating. Pitch dismounted the fearling and continued on, gliding on the snow without breaking its surface. He glanced about, wary in case the Guardians were still lurking in the shadows, but he was alone. He was in no mood for a confrontation with the do-gooders, especially not when Frost was clearly on a ham-fisted rampage. There was rage here, and grief. Beneath the crisp scent of snow Pitch could sense an undercurrent of death, and buried in deep, the delicious aroma of fear. How appropriate that Frost turned the park into an inhospitable wasteland. The memory of Antarctica rose in Pitch's mind, along with connotations of disappointment, rejection, anger, and what-could've-beens. But that was then and this was now. He never liked dwelling on failures. Pitch ghosted along, hugging the shadows, most comfortable in their cover. The moon was very low in the sky now, the once-powerful silver now a dull gray. It would be dawn in a few hours, and the Nightmare King had no intention of seeing the sunrise. He continued on, exploring Frost's destruction, leaving behind only the shallowest of prints in the snow. 

Pitch heard the grunts of pleasure and brittle chewing noises long before he came across the horse. It was eating what looked to be the bottom half of a child's body, snout wrapped around the femur. The Nightmare King watched on dispassionately. The scene reminded him of one he'd witnessed during the Dark Ages, except it had been a starving pack of dogs that had eaten the child and not a horse. His gaze narrowed. _This is no horse,_ he thought. When it became clear it wasn't going to notice him soon, Pitch stepped out into the fading moonlight. The horse snapped its long head up, staring at him with its ghost eyes. Its chewing slowed.

“So, you're the one causing all the stir,” Pitch said. He gave a mock bow. “I must say I am impressed.”

The horse stood on squat little legs, head bloated three sizes too big for its body. “Boogeyman,” it said. There was no love in its voice. 

“Haven't seen your kind for a century or two. Grew tired of swimming in your puddles in Ireland?”

It took a step forward before pausing, its small, pointed ears rotating. The fearlings had caught up to their master and were amassing around him. They blew and stamped at the other horse. Pitch scratched one under its chin, never taking his gaze off the horse before him. He hadn't been lying: he was familiar with the type of creature before him, but there was something different about it. It possessed a warped sense of elongation, as if he were looking at it through a funhouse mirror. 

“Go away,” it said. “These children are _mine_.”

The Nightmare King cocked his head, still more amused than irritated. “Oh?”

“I am replacing you. They fear me now.”

Pitch's laughter was a shock amidst the cold, frozen landscape. When his mirth simmered he smiled at it, his uneven teeth glinting in the low light. “That's rich, coming from a water pony.”

One look at its flared nostrils and trembling body told him he had struck a deep chord. He regarded his work with a self-satisfied smile. Pitch hadn't lied to Frost all those months ago when he said _I know peoples' greatest fears._ It was true. Sometimes all it took was a glance, a flash of the throat, an avoidance of the eye, but in the end Pitch unearthed the one thing that could make a person undone. Frost was almost laughably easy to read: his fears were blazoned across every word and and movement he said or did. Centuries of isolation and the hopelessness of being psychologically adrift had done its work well. The child had enough fears and insecurities to sink a ship, a truth Pitch took much pleasure in aggravating. It was no different with the creature in front of him. He could read it in the horse's swollen eyes: _I must be feared, I cannot be forgotten._ There was hatred, too, a vast and terrible abhorrence towards humanity. The Boogeyman guessed it had something to do with its kind going extinct by human hands. It went deep, deeper than any superficial emotion. This was the core of the creature, and Pitch had overturned it as easily as he would a pebble. He gazed at it as if it were a fly under his foot, bored. He'd seen its kind come and go, killed off as humans destroyed their precious lakes and lochs, one by one falling into myth and legend. This one was merely a relic of the old world, too stubborn and afraid to die. It would be no different.

“I'm going to eat you now,” it said. 

Pitch was unamused. “You can't kill fear, little pony.”

“I don't want to kill you. I want your heart.”

The Nightmare King had a second's warning before it was lunging at him, mouth stretched impossibly wide. It was fast, faster than thought possible, but Pitch was no stranger to swiftness. Like a lick of quicksilver he was leaping and dodging, one step ahead of the snapping jaws. He knew if he touched its inky coat he'd be stuck fast and it'd be all over. He tried keeping to the shadows in hopes of losing it but it was always there, worrying his heels. He exploded around a tree and rolled to avoid getting trampled. 

The fat little horse had stretched and was now taller than his Nightmares. The front knees were bending in the wrong direction. It trumpeted and wheeled around, screaming. With a grunt Pitch called upon his scythe. He swung hard. It kept the creature at bay, making it retreat. It reared and squalled when a pass sliced open a cut on its chest. Milky blood hissed and steamed in the snow. The Nightmare King cursed when it slipped within the giant scythe's radius and galloped towards him. Just as it was about to overtake him fearlings rushed at it from all sides, whinnying to save their master. They were cut down, the translucent fishbone teeth making short work of them, each exploding in a slithery whisper of dreamsand. Pitch used the distraction to slip into the darkness, keeping close to the ground. He watched as the horse circled, nostrils flaring, before it thundered off, still squealing like a broken cassette player. Silence descended upon the wrecked landscape. He waited several moments, glancing at the way it left. Nothing. He was alone. 

Pitch crawled from under the conifer bough he'd been hiding beneath and started gliding away. With his Nightmares gone he would have to slip under a child's bed to make his way back to his lair. He took all of ten steps before a black shape appeared at his side. He had enough time to stare in wide-eyed dismay before it reached down and sank its teeth into the meat between his thumb and index finger. 

Pitch howled in real pain. He tried to shake himself free, shouting, “Get off, you stupid animal!”

It grinned into the bite and crunched down harder. Pitch was dancing now, feet scrambling to find purchase, his hand caught fast. It was starting to drag him toward the lake. It stank like decaying worms left to cook in the sun. His hand was on fire, the hurt all-encompassing. Blood he hadn't seen in centuries began to drip into the snow, black as ink. The first stirrings of fear were lit in Pitch. He tried punching the boney face but the horse shook its head as if dislodging flies, causing the teeth to sink in deeper. Snarling, Pitch shot a fistful of corrupted dreamsand straight at one of its eyes. In a tiny explosion it popped, covering the Nightmare King in milky, viscous fluid. Little bugs squirmed in it. To his horror the creature didn't even pause, keeping up its inexorable pulling. The water's edge was in sight. 

Something barreled into the horse's side with the force of a battering ram. As the creature fell its jaws opened in an enraged shriek, for a moment forgetting its prey. In an instant Pitch was free. The Nightmare King clutched his bleeding hand to his chest and looked up. His savior had been the last surviving fearling. It disentangled itself from the snow and rushed at Pitch. With a deftness and grace few could parallel he swung himself on and kicked it into flight. The Nightmare left the ground with a flurry of limbs, its legs and neck straining to gain speed and height. A roar of thwarted fury followed him but Pitch didn't look back, leaving nothing behind save two long drag marks and a splash of blood on the snow. 

 

…

 

_TBC_


	4. iv

But in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world. _  
—_ Tim O'Brien, _The Things They Carried_

 

_._

 

Jack was pacing like a caged animal. It had been three days since the disastrous fight with the horse that wasn't a horse and the young Guardian swung between wanting to sleep forever and beating the crap out of anything that looked at him sideways. Four more children had disappeared since then, making it a grand total of eleven taken. Despite the start of summer vacation a curfew was in effect in the town of Burgess. The local police station held a press conference, the police chief grim and pale in his starched blues. The story was a murderer was on the loose and for kids to be careful, to not talk to strangers or get into any unfamiliar cars. All the same parents were finding their children pulled from their beds, windows flung open. The bodies had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. The faces were hardly touched, but each had their chests imploded, their sternums and ribs caved inward. All of them were missing their hearts. Many were found dragged near and around Burgess lake. A search-and-rescue diving team found one at the bottom tangled up in the algae, face stretched in a mask of agonized terror. A hush descended upon the normally bright and prosperous town of Burgess. Neighbor suspected neighbor. Parent blamed parent. The funeral home was now busier than the cafés. Children grew afraid to play even in their yards, avoiding each other as if they had the plague. 

Perhaps the worst part was the Guardians were no closer to discovering a way to defeat the new menace. The best they could do was patrol Burgess, ready to chase away any black horses. Jack knew he had been soundly beaten last time and was in no hurry for a repeat. He wanted to be ready, to know where to strike. He wanted to head towards Tibet, just as the Moon said, but North was adamant he had to go with Pitch. Maybe it was the sour mood in the air or the fact he felt trapped, but Jack found himself spoiling for a fight.

“Pitch won't come,” he said, throwing his words to watch where they fell. “He threw my offer back in my face and laughed.”

North was the one to answer. “He will come; you need to trust Man in Moon.”

 _Like a windup toy,_ Jack thought. He was starting to see why Pitch was so mocking of them. “We're wasting our time.”

North wagged a finger in his direction. “When Moon says you be Guardian, others doubt, but not I. I knew to trust in him. And look! Hurrah, you Guardian now. We all love you like we do old country.” In a more serious tone, he finished, “He has his reasons. You should accept them.”

Jack fumed. Before Jaime's death he would've been mollified, but the strange contention in him refused to accept the olive branch. They were dancing the same old arguments, drawing the others from where they'd been huddled around a map of Burgess. Bunnymund was quick to go to Jack's side, not exactly crowding, but ready to interject with a boomerang if necessary. The Sandman shared worried glances with Toothiana, who was hovering with her girls. She and Sandy still needed to maintain their duties; as much as they would've liked to stay all the time in the Pole, they sometimes slipped away. Luckily for the rest of the Guardians it was summer in Burgess, which meant Easter and Christmas didn't demand the others' times. Yet. As for Jack, fun was the last thing on his mind. He felt trapped under invisible rules and stupid guidelines. This was exactly what he was afraid of when he had first been offered the Guardianship. 

The winter spirit rounded on North. “Screw his reasons! If he'd just tell us what we're up against and how to kill it, things would go so much faster! Why does he want us to mess around with some dried old monks in the Himalayas when we could be stopping that thing?”

“Because the Guardians can't do anything without my old friend's permission.”

In an instant the Guardians were whirling towards Pitch's sonorous voice, each crouched in a fighting stance. Bunnymund grunted, boomerangs in paws. The Yetis looked at each other. Toothiana's little fairies began to chatter and squeak, remembering their harsh treatment held at the Nightmare King's hands. Only North did little more than look, a knowing crinkle in his eyes. Pitch regarded each of the Guardians from atop the globe, expression of exquisite distain on his haughty features. He held one hand behind his back, his body angled as if to run at the slightest provocation.

“What do you want, Pitch?” Jack said, speaking for all of them.

The Nightmare King tilted his head at him, reminding the winter spirit of a crow searching for carrion. For some reason it disturbed him. “Why, wasn't it you who wanted me to come all those days ago? Forgotten already, have you?” 

Like smoke he bled away. He reappeared on the floor level, stalking towards them with the fluidity of a hunting cat. His footfalls were soundless on the persian carpets, precise in his economy, not a single movement wasted. Jack tightened his handle on his staff, ready for any tricks. In the sunlight Pitch's charcoal skin seemed washed out, bleached. Then he realized it wasn't the sun at all: the Nightmare King appeared paler than normal, the skin around his cheekbones stretched tight. The dark hollows around his aluminiferous eyes seemed bigger than before.

“What's with the change of heart, then?” Jack asked, not trusting him. 

Pitch chuckled, but there was no humor in it. It was a graveyard sound. “Let's say our mutual friend makes a very strong case. Much stronger than any of you could make.”

With little fanfare Pitch withdrew the hand from behind his back. As one the Guardians were equally repulsed and mesmerized; they all crowded closer, much to Pitch's obvious discomfort. It was a hand like any other, if one were shoved through a meat grinder. The web between thumb and index finger was mottled black and red with angry streaks. A cluster of veins visibly pulsed beneath the surface. The longer Jack looked, the more he understood he was looking at holes where fishbone-thin teeth had punched through. Teethmarks. Something had bitten him. The wounds were suppurating, leaking dark fluid with every pulse. 

Jack whistled. “Whoa. We can bleed?”

Toothiana's voice was distracted. “It's rare, but if another magical creature attacks us, then yes, it's possible.”

For Toothiana the lesions smelled like gingivitis. To Bunnymund it stank of rotting eggs. The Sandman thought it held the aroma of corrupted dreamsand. For North it reeked like wet Yeti. Jack thought it smelled like Jaime. 

“A parting gift,” Pitch said. “Believe me, this forced me to come to the decision with no small reluctance. I need to find a way to cleanse it, and I heard my old friend may have the answer.”

When Pitch withdrew his hand it looked like it hurt him to move his fingers. No wonder; the hand appeared a moment away from dropping off. It was diseased. Jack bet it hurt like hell. A mean grin spread across his face. 

“So, how does the hand feel?” Jack asked. He had about ten seconds to enjoy the withering look Pitch threw at him before the response punched him in the guts.

“About as good as having your precious Jaime die.”

Jack blinked, struck blind at the callousness. Then he was seething, hurling all of his hatred at the Boogeyman in a single needled glare. The dark creature glowered back with mutual feeling, enough poison in his gaze to cause everyone to shiver. The room dropped ten degrees. Elves were having a shoving match to see who would hide behind whom, each unwilling to be near the blast radius should Jack unleash a blizzard. North was quick to interject himself between the two, Naughty and Nice holding Jack and Pitch apart before they could leap at each other's throat. 

“Enough, enough,” the great bear of a man said. “That's enough from both of you. Pitch, that is not nice.”

“Do us all a favor and get your face chewed off next time.” 

“Go suck an icicle, Frost.”

“ _I SAID ENOUGH!_ ” 

It would've been comical to see both Pitch and Jack jump and flinch at the same time, had not everyone been standing on eggshells. Jack was the first one to look away, snorting _Whatever._ He leapt away until he was the one perched atop the globe. He sat there, one leg to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him, sullen and brooding. With a sniff Pitch returned his attention back to the other Guardians, who in turn slowly ignored their youngest member. With a tight smile Jack realized he had a perfect view of the Nightmare King's injured hand. It was held in a loose fist. Though he was too far to see it, it trembled from time to time. The winter spirit began to daydream of crushing it under the butt of his staff and listening to Pitch's shrieks of pain. It soothed the aching hole in his chest.

“You must've gotten a good look at the creature,” Toothiana was saying. “Do you know what it is?”

With his back turned Jack couldn't see Pitch's expression, but in the hesitation he could read obvious reluctance. The Nightmare King finally said, “It's a kelpie. A water horse. Not common around here. You must've figured it out by now . . . though it's none like I've ever run across.”

“Oh?” Bunnymund said. “How's that?”

Pitch sneered. “I know you all are so busy with your delightful children and cheerful holidays, but you people _must_ have some knowledge of the dark side of nature. Kelpies eat the livers of their victims. This one goes for the hearts.” He looked at them, searching for a sign of recognition. “Did any of you feel something wrong?”

The diminutive dream-caster prodded Bunnymund. When the giant rabbit glanced at him, a representation of Jack's likeness floated above the Sandman's head. Bunnymund nodded. 

“Sandy's right. Jack was the only one of us who got a good look at our bird,” he said. He looked up at the winter spirit, ears cupping. “Did you feel something off?”

They were all looking at the young Guardian now, expectant. Pitch appeared disinterested but his eyes told a different story: they held him in place with their singular, heavy weight, shining like greasy coins. Jack forced himself to ignore the sudden focus. 

“Yeah.” It irritated him that he was agreeing with his enemy. He didn't look at them, remembering _Why did you abandon me?_ like a bad movie that wouldn't turn off. The irritation mounted. It was a mistake having Pitch over. Knowing him he'd probably stab them in the back the first chance he got. Jack seethed when he recalled the Nightmare King's cruel words. Didn't the other Guardians hear? They heard what he said yet still wanted them to work together? Suddenly it was too much. 

“We don't need him,” Jack said, desperate. “Just let me go.”

“Of course you need him!” North boomed from below. “Man in Moon said.”

Pitch's earlier comment about moons and parrots rang in Jack's head. 

“If you don't mind, I would like to see the message myself. For propriety's sake,” Pitch said. He circled around, now keeping both Jack and the other Guardians in view. Toothiana's flock of mini fairies chattered angrily when he brushed by. Without warning he whirled on them, eyes manic wide as he lifted his good hand in a claw. “Boo.” He chuckled when they swarmed behind their queen for protection. His mirth fell away when she rolled a quarter across her knuckles, her dark expression promising more broken teeth. Before violence could break out between them North called the others around. He was pressing buttons on the same dais the Moon had used to relay his message. Though his vantage point gave him a perfect view of the little show, Jack had little stomach for what he was about to see. He turned away when the first glowing took place and remained there when the silence stretched beyond the message's duration. He suddenly hoped Pitch would reject the idea. He turned to see, eagerness blooming in his chest. 

An inscrutable look was arranged on the Nightmare King's face. It was dead for all it moved, but when it perceived Jack and his hope, something like perverse delight crossed it. Jack's spirit wavered as the delight bled into something sinister all together. By the time Pitch spoke, the young Guardian was prepared for the worse.

“The longer you argue, the more children will die,” Pitch said, voice dripping in a sing-song falsetto. “Your choice.”

“Lay off,” Bunnymund said, rounding on the dark spirit, boomerang in paw. “Can't you see he's suffering enough?”

Jack experienced the agony of realizing the dark creature was right. More children, more Jaimes, were going to die if he didn't pull himself together. His face hardened. It needed to be done. For his friend.

“Fine. We leave now.”

Pitch's too-wide smile showed all the teeth in his head. His eyes were hard and full of dark promises. “Perfect.”

The parties moved outside, towards North's launching pad for the sleigh. Pitch kept himself away from the main congregation, choosing instead to stroke his fearling's neck. It was half-rearing and stamping with anticipation to leave the strange-smelling place, wispy reins appearing on the bit in its mouth. The Nightmare King ignored the looks the other Guardians were shooting him. Jack wished he could do the same. He hated the pity and the grimaces of sympathy they were giving him. It felt like a goodbye, like they were never going to see him again. _Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys,_ he thought. Next was the issue of transportation. Jack couldn't drive North's sled or control the snow globes, couldn't command Bunnymund's tunnels or drift on a sandcloud like the Sandman. He had his staff and the pure ability of flight. It would take several hours to fly to the other side of the world, especially if there were no mishaps. 

North clapped both giant hands on Jack's shoulders, almost crushing the immortal teenager to the ground. Before he could reorient himself North captured his head, forcing Jack to look straight in the big man's cheery, ruddy visage. 

“No worries, Jack. We keep Burgess safe until you come back with secret of kelpie's demise.”

“Uhhh, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “You can let go now.”

Each of the others started to move in to offer their well-wishes, but a ringing neigh turned their attentions to Pitch. The Nightmare King had mounted the fearling and was controlling its reins with his good hand. The other was cradled to his chest, black and leaking. Jack was sure Pitch was going to make a smarting comment about how cute this all was, but for once the dark creature was all for business. 

“Let's move, Frost.” Without waiting for an answer he kicked the Nightmare into the sky. It leapt into the empty space, legs pumping, crying out its eerie wail. 

“It be okay,” North said. With one last nod Jack jumped off the rickety wooden boards and zoomed after Pitch. As he flew he tried to believe those words, trying to shake the sinking feeling this journey would be far from it. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Jack strove to keep as much distance as possible between himself and Pitch. He trailed two hundred meters behind the other, flying above enough so the winter spirit could see him but nothing more. If he didn't look at Pitch he could pretend he was there of his own volition. It seemed to suit the dark creature just fine; he kept his head forward, leaning into the Nightmare's neck whenever a strong crosswind from the jet stream blew through. Jack wondered if Pitch had much experience in flying this high. He himself had little. This was plane-travel altitude, the jet stream pulling him along with a bone-breaking velocity. At this height he was offered a sight only the few and privileged ever experienced. The great curve of the earth stood before him, the icy filament hovering between cloud and beyond. Huge clouds waited for them on the horizon. The savage beauty of it took his breath away. It was the sunset, the world awash with soft purples, pinks, and golds, the sky above the colour of crushed grapes. If he wanted to he could keep shooting up, up where the air was as thin as tissue paper and as freezing as the deepest ocean depths. It made him feel tiny and insignificant, like one snowflake in a giant storm. He grinned. _I'm going to have to tell Jaime about this,_ he thought for a single, glorious, blissful second, forgetting.

When reality crashed his good mood deteriorated. The beauty leached out of the world and became cold and stark. The wind whistled in his ears, drowning out his misery. He glanced at the galloping Nightmare and its rider, remembering the callous words. The familiar rush of hatred warmed him, gnawing at him as a dog would a bone. As if sensing the winter spirit's glare Pitch looked over his shoulder. Though too far away to really see his expression, Jack guessed he was frowning. The Guardian resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. 

As the sun died and night fell Jack learned the reason for Pitch's obvious distaste. The big fluffy clouds turned out to be lightening storms, their centers dark and roiling. They had no choice but to enter the maw, too late to go around. Jack flew closer to Pitch, his trepidation at separation greater than his dislike of the shadow. Sheets of jagged lightening cracked over their heads, deafening _CRRAAACKKs_ roaring across their heads. Shadows were thrown into sharp relief as lightening dyed the world shock purple. The downpour was torrential. Within seconds Jack's hoodie was drenched. Pitch appeared no better, though it seemed the water was beading off him as it would on duck feathers. The fearling, however, was composed of dreamsand. It began to take in water, growing heavier and heavier with each passing second. It struggled to keep aloft under its own weight, neck straining. 

“We have to go down,” Pitch said, shouting to be heard over the din. 

“Then go,” Jack shouted back. 

Pitch drove the fearling downward and it shot like a speeding bullet, forcing Jack to keep up. He could hardly see his own hands in all this rain. Lightening split the air, highlighting the fleeing forms. Jack squinted. When they were close enough to the earth he saw they were over a dense forest at the foot of a mountain range. He had no idea where they were. He had little time to speculate before Pitch was veering off, heading straight for a random spot near some cliffs. The young Guardian had no choice but to follow, hating Pitch all the more for causing a delay. Jack almost laughed when he realized where the Nightmare King was leading them. It was a cave, or rather, a series of hollow indents in the mountainside. One portion appeared big enough to house the tiny party until the deluge passed. Maybe Pitch had some homing radar to pick up on dank and dusty places. All the same, Jack was grateful for the shelter. He touched down on soft feet, gritty scree scrunching between his toes. He looked up to find the Nightmare King dismounting from the snorting fearling. His own footfalls were soundless in the gravel. The fearling stamped and shook itself, water droplets flying everywhere. Its master crooned at it. Jack watched the small scene in disgust. The Nightmare seemed to sense the Guardian's stare and neighed. Pitch turned and gazed at him, the molten core of his eyes glinting whenever lightening cracked across the sky. 

The cave at its widest point was fifty feet across. Jack kept himself as far away from Pitch as possible, wedging himself near the entrance. He sat with his boney knees drawn to his chest and rested his chin on one of them. He encircled his arms around them. Outside the storm continued to rage, rain coming down in a solid sheet. The monotonous drone was hypnotic. This type of landscape matched his mood better than the sunset had. He stared at nothing, mind miles away.

“Something catching your interest?”

Jack's mouth tightened. He had hoped to use the silence to brood. “Leave me alone,” he said. 

“We can't ignore each other forever, Jack,” Pitch said, voice dripping with mock hurt. Smug vindication was woven through every syllable. “Haven't you heard? We're partners now.”

“You would like that, wouldn't you.” Jack didn't like thinking about Antarctica. It was a sore spot between them—he, his snapped staff and Baby Tooth's abduction, Pitch with his rejected offer. If they kept worrying the old wound it would fester, much as Pitch's hand was doing. Nothing good could ever come from their combined efforts. This _partnership,_ as Pitch put it, was a farce.As far as Jack was convinced, the Man in the Moon was a crackpot with too much time on his hands. The immortals on earth were his playthings to jerk around like puppets. Jack wrapped his arms tighter around himself. This world was spinning on its hinges, moving too fast. Nothing was making sense. 

“You must've done something terrible,” Pitch's voice whispered inches from his ear, “to be forced into my company. What did you do?”

Jack leapt to his feet and whirled around, staff humming. Pitch was still standing on the other side of the small cave, nowhere near him. His bitten, infected hand was held behind his back, his body angled for deflection. He was gazing at Jack with a predator's focus, appraising, hungry, ready for the first sign of weakness. The Guardian said nothing, but his sullen silence was answer enough. Jaime was dead because of him, dead because he hadn't been there to save him, guard him. He had let that monster eat him. Was this all one big punishment on the Moon's part? Did he deserve this? Jack looked away, face hardening under the implications. 

“Nothing,” he said.

Pitch's razor smile cut through him as easily as a scythe. “You're lying,” he said softly.

Jack swung his staff to eye-level, shepherd's hook aimed straight at Pitch's heart. The puddles around his feet were freezing solid. Rain was turning into sleet outside. The hole inside Jack was beginning to burn like fingers left out in the cold too long. 

“What do you know?” he asked, gritting his teeth. 

“You forget what I am. What I can see,” Pitch said, turning, and Jack saw something dangerous flit across his face. It was the same expression he'd worn when Jack botched up Easter and let the Nightmares destroy the eggs. “You reek of fear. You're afraid you won't be able to protect all your little friends, afraid you'll fail them again.”

“I won't,” Jack said, but Pitch was already laughing. 

“Of course you will! You can't protect every child that catches your fancy. It's a dark world out there, a world where everything isn't all bright and shiny. Children die all the time. You'd be a fool to think otherwise.”

“Stop it.”

“Wake up and smell the thorns, _Jack_. You're making a mess again and not even realizing it.”

“I said stop it!”

“Why should I? Someone needs to get through that thick skull of yours. The Guardians can tiptoe around you all they want, but I won't. This guilt, or whatever it is you're feeling, is pointless. You won't always win, so start getting used to it.”

“Oh, and you would know this,” Jack said, sneering. A thin, trembling line was all that held him together. His staff shook in his hands. 

Pitch took a heavy, deliberate step forward. Whatever perverse humor he had before evaporated. He bared his jagged teeth in a growl. “I've lived your lifetime compounded by millennia. I know the darkness and fear the world holds. So your precious Jaime is dead. I've seen mothers murder their daughters and fathers rape their sons. When the plagues swept Europe I watched children die by the thousands, each wasting away until they were nothing but dust on the floor. So yes, I do know.”

“Stop,” Jack said. He was teetering on a knife's edge. A cloud of flies buzzed in his ears. “This is different. Kids are dead because a kelpie ate them.” 

Pitch shrugged, his gaze never leaving Jack's, searing straight into his core. “And who's fault would that be?” 

The hair-thin chord holding Jack in place snapped. He rushed at the Boogeyman, roaring, ice exploding from his staff. The Nightmare King dodged with a panther's grace, but this was close quarters and Jack was relentless. Soon the Guardian was slowly pushing him back with his attacks, forcing Pitch to give ground. With an echoing trumpet the fearling disappeared down a smaller annex, still too soaked to be of any use. Neither Jack nor Pitch noticed. Jack slashed a small blizzard at him, his entire body torquing from the force of the blow. The dark spirit evaded it by a hairsbreadth, flattening to the ground as it whistled over his head and slammed into the cave wall. Cracks spidered across the surface. With a feral snarl Pitch summoned a whip of dark dreamsand, similar to what the Sandman used. It lashed out at him, licking the air with a sharp _crack!_ Jack felt it sing inches from his ear. He was running now, straight at Pitch. The whip sang again and a bloom of pain blossomed on his cheek. Jack hardly felt it. It was inconsequential. Nothing mattered. 

“Enough! This is pointless!” Pitch was shouting, but Jack couldn't, wouldn't hear. He lifted himself and swung the staff one would a bat. As he brought it down it cracked against the other's face. With a _oof_! of pained surprise the Nightmare King rolled in the snow drifts. He was shaking his head, body propped on one elbow, when Jack brought the staff down again as hard as he could, this time on the wounded hand. A crescendo of agony ripped from Pitch's throat. The next instant he was scrambling backward on his seat, hand plastered to his chest, face a scrunched mask of livid pain. Jack's mouth stretched in a vicious smile. He felt more alive than he could ever remember. He drank in the suffering and fear in his enemy's expression he would a strong wine. It was intoxicating. Empowering. It soothed the aching hole where his heart had been, filling its emptiness to the brim. He wanted more. He took a step forward, enjoying the wariness in Pitch's eyes. So focused was he on the emotions Jack didn't notice Pitch's feet until too late. As quick as a striking weasel the Nightmare King swept Jack's legs from under him. The Guardian fell hard on his back, grunting. His grip on his staff was loosened just enough for Pitch to snatch it. 

Jack reached, _No!_ dying on his lips as the other cracked it in half. It was Antarctica all over again. The sensation of being stabbed in the guts paralyzed his frame, the dim, animal part of himself sensing the horrible _snap_ of his magic. He fell to his knees, huffing, waiting for the pain to subside. He looked up. Pitch was leaning on the nearest cave wall. He was the palest Jack had ever seen, nearly the colour of dirty snow. He was panting hard. The hand was bleeding freely now, its smell reminding the Guardian of Jaime returned from the grave. The angry streaks had traveled, Jack realized. They were beyond his wrist now. The suppuration was spreading. 

“Never,” Pitch said, breathless, “do that again.” 

“Stop breaking my staff,” Jack said through gritted teeth. 

“Done.”

As the two of them caught their breath the winter spirit looked around the cave. It looked more like the inside of a snow globe, if such a globe included treacherous spears of ice mixed with dreamsand, piles of snow, and hail falling outside. The Boogeyman's words _You make a mess wherever you go_ rang uncomfortably loud in his head. The earlier burning was cold sludge in his chest. Maybe it was the fight or the breaking of his staff but he felt drained, wearier than he'd been in a long time. What was happening to him? Jack could feel Pitch watching him beneath heavy-lidded eyes as he crossed the cave to the fallen staff pieces. Like last time he mashed the broken parts together. The blue glow appeared but it was sluggish, dimmer than before. When the pieces connected the shining disappeared without fanfare, fading into the wood without a single whorl of frost. It didn't sing when he clutched it in his hand. Jack frowned. It felt for all the world like a human's walking stick. 

“Something wrong?” Pitch asked. His gaze was withering. 

Jack ignored him. He walked to the edge of the cave's mouth, still looking at his staff as if it'd grown a mouth. He pointed it to a frozen puddle and commanded the magic. No ice appeared, no crinkle of frost. Nothing happened. The staff appeared as it did when held in Pitch's hands, dull and lifeless. Jack tried to stem the tide of panic. He shifted grips, held it different places, searched for hidden cracks, but the reality remained the same. _Relax,_ he told himself. The winter spirit closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, just as the Sandman sometimes did to regain his centre. He could feel the magic within him flickering like a live thing. Relief flooded him. It was there. He reopened his eyes. He understood enough about himself to know his weapon was a conduit for his powers. If his powers were intact, why wasn't the staff working? Humiliation and confusion warred within the young immortal. He didn't look at the Nightmare King when he said, 

“It's not working.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Pitch said. 

“It didn't do this last time. I don't understand.” Jack tried to keep the panic from his voice but the dark creature's ear was keener than most. 

“Your dependency on that staff is appalling. Now what are you going to do? We're only at the Ural mountains.”

“I . . .” What was he going to do? The bleakness of the situation weighed down all around him like the phantom caress of water. He had to get to Tibet to learn the secret of defeating the kelpie. Without his staff, he couldn't fly. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping beyond all hopes Pitch might have the answer. _He always has an answer for everything,_ he thought. The Nightmare King hadn't moved from the wall, still shrouded in the the shadows, his expression hard to read. When he perceived Jack's hope he smiled, and there was nothing friendly about it. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

The lightening and rain lasted throughout the night before tapering into a cool, heavy fog. Early morning found the dark eurasian forest stretched out in either direction in a vast, silent carpet. Not a breath stirred the mountainside. Since their fight Pitch kept glancing at Jack pensively, staring at him as if he'd snap at any moment. Jack ignored him the best he could, grateful for the quiet. After everything it was good to sort through the mess in his head. His cheek was stinging where the whip had struck him, but he welcomed the pain. It kept him from sinking too deep in Jaime-thoughts. He didn't react when the eerie whicker announced the return of the Nightmare. It took one look at the destruction and melting heaps of ice and shook its head, snorting. It floated to Pitch's side in a slithery whisper. Its master greeted it with slow pets, eyes miles away. Then a dark cloud passed over the pale features. Pitch glanced at Jack. Jack stared at Pitch. A slow, predatory focus spread across the Boogeyman's face. 

Jack arrived at the same idea. He backed away, shaking his head. “No. No way.”

Pitch made a show of sighing, but even the master of deception couldn't hide the sickening glee in his voice. “I see no choice. Unless you want to walk there.”

“I'd rather do that.”

Pitch shrugged and shot him a tight-lipped smile, but there was no mirth in it. It was an angry slash of mouth, twisted and still remembering the pain inflicted to his hand. “Fine. But I wonder how many children will die due to your tardiness. Ten? Twenty? And here I thought time was of the essence.”

This wasn't happening. He was in hell. Jack glowered, never hating Pitch more than he did in that moment. Pitch may've been just as appalled at the idea as he was, but the Nightmare King was enjoying Jack's horror too much to let it stop. Jack looked down at the staff held in a white-knuckled grip, wishing with all his soul for a sign of magic, for a single snowflake. It seemed to mock him with its stillness. He gritted his teeth. If this ever got back to the other Guardians, he would gladly step off the face of the earth.

“Couldn't—couldn't, you know, make two of them?”

Pitch held his rotting hand in front of him. “I would love to, but my powers are, let's say, indisposed for the moment.” He glanced at it, as if fascinated by the degradation of his own flesh. Jack remembered the scream of pain Pitch had uttered and how he had enjoyed it. The niggle of shame was unwelcome. He shoved it away. 

“Fine _,_ ” Jack said. _“_ But don't expect me to ride in front.”

“Of course,” Pitch said, suddenly impassive. He pushed the Nightmare forward, positioning its hindquarters so it Jack was perpendicular to it. It was larger up close than the young Guardian remembered. Its neck seemed composed of pleated scales, sharp ridges cascaded down to the withers in place of a mane. Its black coat shimmered with corrupted dreamsand. It had a strange scent to it, one Jack couldn't place. It wrinkled his nose all the same. Why must anything equine appear so threatening? The immortal teenager eyed its stamping legs and glowing yellow orbs with blatant mistrust. He remembered how they had surrounded the Sandman when Pitch shot him, how they filled the sky like a dark tide of despair. The fearling seemed to sense the spicy nervousness in the air and squealed. Pitch calmed it with a few low words. He threw Jack a pointed look. 

“You _do_ know how to ride.” 

If he did, Jack couldn't remember. He didn't recall much about his past life, and what he did he preferred forgetting. He had saved a sister that meant no more to him than a blank photograph, and had drowned for it. He didn't like thinking about the trauma he must've caused her. It felt weird thinking she and her descendents were long dead.

“No, but how hard could it be?” Jack said, still looking at the Nightmare as if fangs would shoot out at any moment. With startling grace Pitch swung himself on. Jack hadn't noticed before how excellent the Boogeyman was as a horseman. He sat astride as if born to it, commanding the shifting fearling beneath him with almost disinterested ease. He glanced at Jack, clearly enjoying the Guardian's discomfort. He wore the smugness one would a cloak. 

“Come on, Jack. I won't bite.”

“Pull any funny business and your hand gets it again.”

All traces of complacency were wiped off Pitch's features. The Nightmare King glared, metallic eyes glinting with an almost inner fever. “You have a big mouth for someone in a predicament,” he said softly, almost friendly. “I do recall your powers not working. I would hate for you to accidentally fall off and keep falling.” 

Jack whistled, lifting a palm up in peace. “Okay, okay. I get it.” He stepped closer, clearing his throat. He was close enough to touch the fearling's glittering flanks now. “So, uh, where do I. . .? _Whoa!_ ”

With his good hand Pitch reached down, grasped the nape of the hoodie and swung him up. Jack was instantly aware of the shifting, unstable world beneath him, of how little traction he had. Instinct made him clamp his legs together, which caused the moving creature underneath to jerk and prance. In a desperate attempt to remain seated Jack wrapped his arms around the only thing solid nearby. When his brain caught up to reality he became ramrod straight, too shocked to react. The body he held went stiff, freezing. Jack winced, braced for the storm of contempt and mockery sure to come, but to his astonishment, Pitch said nothing. With a jerk of the reins the dark spirit swung the fearling towards the cave's entrance. The natural slope of the fearling's spine forced Jack to remain mashed against Pitch. He perceived every shift and movement the other made, agonizingly aware he was closer to the dark spirit than he'd ever been. A long time ago he had thought the Nightmare King had no smell, but with his nose pressed between Pitch's shoulder blades he could finally perceive the faint, cool scent. It reminded the young Guardian of cobwebs. It wasn't unpleasant. 

Jack had only Pitch's tightening body as a warning before the fearling was lurching in the air, soaring vertical with the force of a bullet. Without his powers Pitch's threat had been real: Jack had no way of regaining flight if he fell. He clung with the strength of a drowning man, for a single, dizzying moment not caring how humiliated he was. The wind whistled in his ears. The fearling's powerful hindquarters bunched and extended beneath his seat, constantly jolting him. He wondered how Pitch could stand the rocking, how he made riding seem so effortless. Jack dared not utter a word, afraid to mention the strange, fragile truce between them. Pitch seemed no less willing to speak, driving the Nightmare onward with an almost manic force. The mountains were rapidly disappearing behind them, fading, but Jack wasn't in the mood for sightseeing. The bone-deep weariness from before returned, pulling at him with heavy, clumsy hands. He buried his face into Pitch's back and squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he was somewhere else, wished his staff worked, wished Jaime wasn't dead.

 

…

 

_TBC_


	5. v

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. 

–James Joyce, “The Dead” in _Dubliners_

 

_._

 

He had been dreaming, dreaming of rivers and skates. He knew he'd been dreaming because he felt happy, floating on a sea of blissful contentment. Jaime had been there, along with all of his friends. They had been beckoning him to join them, their phantom laughter warming him straight to his core. Jack became awake in increments, first conscious of the gentle rocking beneath him, then of the warm body he was leaning on. He must've drifted off because he found himself resting all of his weight against Pitch, hands slumped on the other's thighs. Jack jerked and sat up straight, mouth dry. How long had they been riding? Worse: how long had he been like this? Pitch must've had every opportunity to shake the young Guardian awake, but didn't. That disturbed Jack. He held himself stiff and cold, arms still encircled around Pitch's middle for support but no more than that. If the other noticed the change in Jack's demeanor no mention of it was made. The Boogeyman's head never looked over his shoulder, never gave any indication of thought, for which Jack was profoundly grateful. He would've gladly let himself fall if Pitch started his cruel taunting. His cheeks flushed dully. He looked around, willing to use anything as a distraction. 

They were lower now, close enough to the earth to view the serrated landscape. Scouring mountaintops reached for them with their craggy fingertips, each standing out in harsh, startling clarity in the thin, arid air. Wispy pockets of clouds clung to the sides. Rivers the colour of turquoise snaked the bottoms of plunging ravines. Between the inhospitable mountains stood shallow steppes the colour of dull tans and greens, stretching in a vast rugged carpet. Tiny lakes and streams dotted amongst them, each the colour of sky. There was something savage and beautiful about the landscape, Jack thought, as if a cruelty was mixed in with splendor. He was still musing about this when he thought the mountains were growing bigger. _No. We're going down._

He had no warning when the world dropped beneath him like a stone. He clung hard to Pitch as they zoomed towards the ground, his stomach plastering to his spine as they tumbled in free fall. The wind screamed in his ears. Then Pitch was banking, curving the fearling up. The ground rushed at them. Jack gritted his teeth, bracing himself for impact. He grunted when the Nightmare made contact, skidding several feet before rearing to a halt. Jack couldn't scramble off fast enough. Pitch's dark chuckles followed him as Jack stumbled on jellied legs, but the immortal teenager ignored him. If he ever found himself on a fearling again, it would be too soon. He went over to where his staff had fallen and picked it up. He welcomed the familiar weight, even if it was as useful as kindling at this point. 

“Where are we?” Jack asked, speaking for the first time since the caves. His voice sounded unnaturally loud in his ears. 

“How should I know?” In the strong mid-morning sunlight Pitch appeared washed out, the normal rich charcoal tones of his skin sickly gray-white. Dark hollows around his metallic eyes gave the appearance of exhaustion. Jack knew his paleness came from a reason more nefarious than the sun; his gaze went to the injured hand but found Pitch had hidden it behind his back. There was something twitchy about the way the Boogeyman kept glancing around, keenly out of place in all the openness. He stood out like a taint in all the green, the tallest thing around. 

Jack frowned. “Then how did you know to come here?”

Pitch looked at him. “Who said I did? My Nightmare went where there was the most fear.”

Jack grunted in annoyance and looked around, shielding his eyes with a hand. They were on a grassy steppe, wind-swept tussocks rustling at their feet. In the distance stood solitary mountain formations, snow-covered and imperious, reflecting the hot, relentless sun in a blinding glare. The familiar sinking feeling returned to the Guardian's guts. The Moon told them to go to a graveyard in Tibet, but didn't specify where or which one. There could be thousands of graveyards littered around this place, and Jack suspected Tibet was a very, very large area. The fearling's whinny pulled him from his despairing. He followed the direction of its pricked ears and saw, in the distance, movement. Jack stared hard. There appeared to be people over the crest of the other ridge. The Guardian had no choice but to check it out. Pitch was calling the fearling over but Jack wasn't going to have any of it. No way. Not again. He started walking, stoutly ignoring Pitch's _What's the matter, Jack? You seemed to enjoy it last time_ taunts. Tan dust kicked about his feet and coated his legs as he headed towards the tiny human population. Pitch rode behind him, the fearling's glimmering dreamsand coat slithering with each step. 

When Jack drew closer his hope withered. Village was too generous a description. There were squat little tents popped up amidst lowing yaks and _baa_ ing sheep. Jack counted six shelters. Pitch pulled up alongside him, scorn plain on his face. 

“This looks promising,” the Nightmare King said, blatant contempt colouring his words black. “How long did you say this goose chase was going to take?”

Jack ignored him. He was staring at something he hadn't noticed before. _A graveyard,_ he thought, astonished. 

There, far beyond the tiny congregation of human souls, was the unmistakable sight of a burial ground. The mounds of stones were easy to recognize at tombstones. There had to be hundreds, some composed of nothing more than three lichen-mottled rocks. Strings of tattered flags criss-crossed over them in a lacework confusion of blues, whites, reds, greens, and yellows. With some of the graves the ground had worn away, leaving a femur or humerus exposed. Jack walked to it until he was at its edge. Pitch followed behind, taking his time.

Maybe thirty feet from the graveyard stood a low-slung canvas tent. Unlike the others this one felt permanent, a build up of human refuse and leavings scattered about the shelter. A yak with a red cloth saddle covered in seashells grazed nearby, a hook in its nose tethering to the ground. It lifted its brown head in Jack's direction for a moment before returning to its meal, tail flicking. The winter spirit had little time to wonder whether it had seen him or not when a tiny shriveled peanut of a man stepped out of the tent. Like the yak he was richly dressed, his bright red garments decorated in white geometric chevrons. It was almost hard to distinguish the features amidst all the wrinkles, the almond eyes almost hidden. Sparse gray hair clung to his head. His hands were gnarled claws. As Jack stared at the man he experienced a little shiver. What were the odds they would find a graveyard on their first try? _Pitch said he followed where the fearling led him,_ he thought. Had the Moon known fear was how to find this man? Jack shook his head, laughing out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought. There was no way a creature as far-removed as the moon could know about the secret inner workings of the earth. Was this man even the person they were looking for? He looked up in the sky and saw the ghost moon, translucent in the daylight. He shuddered a little. 

The biggest dog Jack had ever seen stepped around the tent's corner. It was the rough size and shape of a miniature lion, complete with mane and all. Like the yak it swung its stunted muzzle straight at the immortals. Heavy lips peeled back from yellow teeth before it was rushing towards them, baying an almost savage cry. Jack watched, too surprised to move, as it skidded to a stop ten feet away, still barking its head off. Jack didn't realize Pitch had dismounted until he breezed past and towards the brute. The massive dog retreated one step for each one the Nightmare King took, a note of frenzy entering its hollering. Pitch made as if to leap at it, cutting his body fast. The dog turned tail and galloped away. When it reached the wrinkled man's side it slunk low behind his legs. 

Jack grinned. “Aw, why did you do that? I think it liked you.”

The other didn't answer. Jack saw why. The little Tibetan man was bowing to the Nightmare King. 

“He can see you,” Jack said, astonished. He'd thought only children believed in the Boogeyman, and even then Pitch was cursed with invisibility. But adults could see him? This little wrinkled prune of a man? Pitch was staring hard at the human, an alien expression on his face. To Jack it appeared something like recognition, which was ridiculous. How could Pitch know this random human? Here, in the middle of grass tussocks and yaks? The discrepancies between the two couldn't be more apparent. Pitch moved with a sinuous grace while the other looked like he could trip over his own feet; one was the amalgamation of every child's fear, one was human; one screamed of danger while the other exuded all the ferocity of a clawless kitten. When the man smiled it looked like he four teeth inside his head. Jack wondered how Toothiana would react to such a mouth and suffered a pang of homesickness. He missed the excitable, cheery Guardian, more than he had thought he would. He missed all of them, even Bunnymund. Especially the giant kangaroo. He shook himself, trying to ground himself. 

“ _Khe-rahng kah-bah phe-geh?_ ” the Tibetan man asked. 

Jack winced. The voice was sing-song and smooth, phonetics melting into each other in an unintelligible flow of sound. It meant nothing to his ear. He was about to reply with a sheepish _Do you know English_ when, to his great amazement, Pitch answered in the same lilting birdlike tongue. The man bobbed his head and smiled again. He spoke once more, his words gibberish to the winter spirit. The lion-dog at his heels growled. The man turned and kicked it. The dog leapt sideways like a cat to avoid the strike, snarling. It slunk away, still shooting Pitch suspicious glares. The Tibetan man laughed, and there was something carefree about him Jack liked.

“ _Do-khyi._ 'e good dog.” To Jack's immense relief the man spoke in heavily-accented English. The Tibetan bobbed his wrinkled head, rheumy eyes peering at the two immortals with unerring precision. There was no doubt he could see both of them. “You stay. Be welcome. We talk later in night.” Then he was gone, disappearing back into the folds of the tent. 

For a long moment the two said nothing, seemingly struck dumb at their miraculous fortune. Then Jack glanced at Pitch, eyes narrowed. “Do you know him?”

“No. Why would I?” Pitch said, but there was something buried deep within his voice. It was almost like awe.

Jack tried another track. “So, what'd he say to you?” 

The Nightmare King threw him a flat, unamused look. “You've lived three hundred years. Learn another language besides English.”

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

The reason the small nomadic family of sheep traders were visiting the Tibetan man was because the mother was convinced an evil spirit was possessing her goat. Or so Pitch told Jack. The Boogeyman seemed fascinated with the little Tibetan and would hang about the tent, never entering, but always circling, keeping to the shadows. The dog followed the tall creature but kept a healthy distance away, snarling every so often under its breath. Jack stared at the tiny congregation of mother, daughter, wrinkled man, and goat, still caught off-guard at their stroke of good fortune. He couldn't shake free from the idea the Moon had known this would happen all along. The fearling had led them to the man, which would've only happened if Pitch had been with Jack, which only occurred because the Moon said so. Why was the Man in the Moon taking such a keen interest in this? At first Jack thought this had only to do with Jaime, but now he wasn't so sure. He couldn't help thinking he was missing a bigger picture. _Can't see the forest for the trees, Jack?_ Jaime used to say. They would both laugh because it sounded silly. Jack wasn't laughing now. 

“She fears him,” Pitch said. Jack whirled, spooked. He hadn't heard the Boogeyman walk up besides him. “She hates and depends on him.”

“Why?”

“She sees him as a demon man.”

Jack laughed before he could stop himself. “Yeah, he's old and wrinkled, but that doesn't make him a demon,” he said, scoffing. He peered closer at the Tibetan, trying to see if he missed any horns or forked tails. He was chanting over the goat. It bleated, its liquid eyes stupid and confused. 

Pitch shook his head and clucked his tongue in disproval. “He is _avadh_ _u_ _ta chödpa,_ a servant of fear.” At Jack's blank look, he elaborated. “A shaman. An exorcist. He goes where no other man will go, and they loathe and revere him for it.”

Jack frowned. “Really? Like, where does he go?”

“Carnage fields. Places of waste and sickness. Dead places.” Pitch seemed almost wistful. 

“Why?”

Pitch shook his head again, and this time there was real irritation in his voice. “To _see_ ,” he said, as if those two words explained everything. “Why do you think he saw us in the first place?”

Jack rested his staff on his shoulder. “I was sorta wondering that myself.”

“I've experienced his kind before. Some do shoddy work, others can actually see the fear tormenting the child.” Pitch seemed to pout. “I've lost quite a few good fearlings to them over the centuries. They just take the fun right out of the game.”

“You're messed up,” Jack said lightly, and Pitch laughed. 

Before long night rolled around. As the darkness descended temperatures plummeted with shocking speed. It was the full moon, the barren steppes a solid blanket of silver. The nomadic family had left right after the goat had been exorcised, hurrying away from the _chödpa_ with a haste that seemed to Jack almost rude. They were alone now, the only sounds were the flapping from the prayer flags atop the grave sites. The yak was a dark shape amidst the brightness of the world, its horns glinting as it lowed its lonely call. The shaman threw it some hay and beckoned the immortals inside. The lion-dog was huddled next to the glowing tent, its nose buried in its front paws. It lifted a lip when Pitch and Jack entered the canvas tent through the flap, but made no further complaint. 

It was warm inside, smokey but not uncomfortably so. A fire was crackling in an in-ground hearth, licking at its evening meal of yak dung and steppe grasses, filling the modest space with cozy, orange lighting. There was a little earthen bowl besides it, and Jack could smell the fragrant aroma of cooking mutton and mustard seed rising from it. In another, smaller cup was a strange, golden liquid. It had an odd, salty smell. The Tibetan shaman nodded to it when he noticed Jack's curiosity. 

“Butter tea,” he said. “Want?”

Jack shook his head in thanks and stood off in a corner. He felt jittery and restless; after what Pitch told him, he didn't know what to expect. Would the Tibetan unravel the mystery of his blocked powers? Would he randomly mention kelpies without their urging? He tried to contain his disappointment when the shaman pointed a gnarled finger at Pitch and said, 

“You firt.” 

The Boogeyman was still regarding the little human he would a live bomb, his face a mixture of fascination and wariness. He mimicked the shaman's cross-legged pose, gingerly arranging himself before him. Jack hung in the background, curious despite his impatience. He wondered if the _chödpa_ could do real magic like the Guardians, or if he was just an elaborate sham, good with simple folk and nothing else. As if Pitch was any other human client the _chödpa_ reached out and grabbed the rotting hand. Pitch hissed like a teakettle and squinted, but did little more. He sat as taut as a pulled bowstring, teeth bared in a grimace of acute pain. The exorcist seemed not to notice. He lifted the hand to his prune face. He turned it in the firelight. Sniffed it. Then, without any warning, he stuck a finger in one of the suppurating holes. A shocked howl erupted from Pitch. He tore the hand away as if scorched, still yowling. The Tibetan sat through it as calm as a mountainside, more interested in what he held than the Nightmare King. Jack remained rooted where he stood, too stunned to move. 

“ _WHAT WAS THAT FOR?_ ” Pitch roared, more furious than Jack had ever seen, more furious than when the Guardians turned the tide during their last major battle. He was nearly apoplectic. 

“For dis.” The wrinkled _chödpa_ lifted his hand. Pinched between his thumb and index finger was a tiny squirming white worm. Pitch stared at it with eyes glazed and mad. 

“Dey mut come out.”

The Nightmare King spat something in the birdlike tongue, truculent enough to kill. Jack tightened his hold on his staff, remembering too late it was useless. 

The Tibetan nodded at the Guardian. “'old im still.”

Jack launched himself at Pitch, catching the Nightmare King off guard with his swiftness. A brief wrestling match ensued. The dark spirit fought like a demon, but Jack fought like two. The Guardian soon had a knee between the shoulder blades and left hand on the neck. His right hand held the right arm down and threw out his other foot for stability. Pitch bucked and writhed, feet kicking a pattern on the floor, screaming damnation on the both of them. The _chödpa_ seemed to possess an unearthly strength of his own as he held the diseased hand in place. He bent his mouth to it and sucked hard, cheeking hollowing. The Nightmare King began to shriek in agony. When the exorcist filled his mouth he spat in a small earthenware bowl. Jack's stomach heaved as he saw it the spit crawling with the squirming white worms. The Guardian didn't know how long the torture went, counting the seconds as the exorcist did his gristly work. The _chödpa_ sucked and spat, sucked and spat, all the while muttering incantations under his breath. Eventually he began to pinch at the needle-thin holes of the hand, searching if he'd missed any. By then the Boogeyman was nearly sobbing in rage and pain. Jack found himself shouting _Easy, easy, it'll be okay, it's almost over_ to be heard over the din. 

At last the Tibetan signaled his completion with a nod. Jack stepped off. Pitch was bolting like an animal released from a cage, crashing through the tent flap with the force of a blizzard and causing the lion-dog outside to go into paroxysms of barking. Jack sat down, exhausted beyond all measure. He dared not look at the bowel filled to the brim with writhing saliva. That had all been in Pitch's flesh? Had he been human he would've vomited the contents of his stomach. He gazed the way Pitch had went. He was no doubt long-gone by now on his fearling, racing away at breakneck speed. 

In the dimming firelight the shaman's chiseled face seemed ethereal. He had washed out his mouth with butter tea and was now leveling Jack an unblinking stare. The almond eyes appeared almost without sclera, wholly black. He pointed a gnarled finger at his chest.

“Next night, work wit _you_.” 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Jack stared out into the rolling steppes, nothing but the wind-swept tussocks for company. A scrawny lop-eared coyote scurried past, its nervous paws twitching at every rustle, perhaps on the lookout for the lion-dog. The Guardian half-expected it would notice him and smiled a little when it continued without a single sniff his way. Of course it wouldn't see him; why would it? Maybe the yak and the dog had become sensitive through their Tibetan master. Once again Jack found himself looking for the familiar dark figure, feeling a bite of disappointment when he couldn't see a single black speck. There was a strange emptiness in his chest, different to the one he had when he thought about Jaime. He had no name for it, but it nagged at him all the same. He walked to clear his head, losing himself to the harsh starkness of the Tibetan plateau. It was almost easy to forget why he was here in the first place; the vast nothingness seemed to enter his being, taking root in the most animal of ways. He felt both placid and restless, as if both yearning for company and craving solitude. The duality was confusing, as confusing as his thoughts around Pitch. He didn't like it. There was something haunted about this place, something that didn't sit well in the bones. Creatures weren't supposed to live in such inhospitable environments. The solitude here could crush them mad.

Jack found himself doubling back and headed towards the burial mounds. His frosted blue hoodie was almost tan by the time he reached them, even his white hair dirty under the constant dry wind. Several yellow bones were peeking up between the stones. They were fingers, nails intact. Jack knelt down and covered them up with gritty sand, but he knew it was a temporary fix. The harsh steppe winds would eventually blow the sand away, but for now he felt like he changed something, helped for the better. It was a lonely feeling, and despite himself, wished for Pitch's brooding, ill-humored company. 

Jack looked over his shoulder at the low-slung tent. The little Tibetan man was nowhere to be found, but the Guardian knew he was there. He wondered how the shaman could stand living near the dead with only a half-wild dog and lowing yak for companions. No wonder the other humans thought this man was crazy. Why would anybody want to live like this? _I was like him, once._ Jack knew of isolation intimately. He shuddered, remembering the desolate stretches of silence, watching children play oblivious of his presence, even when he'd given them a snow day. How his heart had ached long and hard. The winter spirit didn't like thinking about those days. They were behind him now. Children believed in him. Jack tried to pull joy from the thoughts but even in his head they were hollow comfort. What good were kids if they kept dying? What use was he without his magic? Jack plopped himself on the ground and tried not to think about his conversation with Pitch in the cave, waiting for night to fall. 

When the sky turned the colour of fire and spilt wine the immortal teenager trekked his way to the tent. The Boogeyman never appeared. The massive dog was there, a gigantic shape of fur and stout legs. It seemed to throw Jack a jaundiced glare. The winter spirit stuck his tongue out at it before entering through the flap. The familiar scene greeted him: the fire in the hearth, the bowels of rolled noodles and butter tea, the carpets patterned with geometric chevrons. An eerie sense of déjà-vu tightened his guts. He would've been lying to himself if he said he wasn't nervous. He had seen what had happened with Pitch. The young Guardian told himself it wouldn't be the same as last night. He wasn't hurt like Pitch had been; he'd never touched the kelpie. He sat cross-legged in front of the shaman, balancing his staff on his knees. The old man's skin gleamed in the orange firelight as if oiled. The almond eyes were almost hidden beneath the wrinkles as he bowed to the winter spirit.

“You travel long way,” the _chödpa_ said. “Very far. Much pain.” Jack flinched when the human raised two fingers and touched his forehead. “Much anger.” The fingers traveled down to his dead heart. “And greef.” 

Jack frowned. He resisted the urge to bat the man's hand away. They weren't here to talk about him; they were here about the kid-eating monster. “Look, I'm sure you can do wonders and all, but I need to talk to you about something called a kelpie. Do you know what that is?”

The Tibetan bowed once, solemn. “Water orse. Old demon.”

Jack nodded in relief. It would've taken him forever to explain it. Pitch's words _He's a servant of fear_ came unbidden to his mind. Of course the shaman would know about kelpies. He may've even killed a few in his day, when he wasn't such a husk. “Good. That's good.” He took a deep breath to calm the sudden clenching in his belly. “We have one in our, uh, village. It's killing kids—children—”

“I know dis.”

“You—you know?”

The exorcist was impassive. “It kill tumone close to you. Dere is eavy sorrow inspirit.” 

Jack didn't want to think about Jaime, uncomfortable this raisin of a man could see right through him. He leaned forward. “My friends and I need your help, badly. Tell me its weaknesses, how to fight it, anything. I need to know how to kill it.”

“Dis orse, wat it like?”

Jack described everything, pouring details down to the elongation of its body to the way it spoke. Despite his loose tongue he couldn't bring himself to tell how it took Jaime's form. He was almost embarrassed to speak of it, humiliated at how he had choked up. Luckily, the _chödpa_ didn't seem to pick up on that little omission. The wrinkled face tightened when the young Guardian described how it had eaten the children's hearts. He remained stone-like when Jack finished. He turned and spat in the same earthenware bowel he used to cleanse Pitch's hand. 

Jack frowned. “Pitch said kelpies eat livers. Why is this one eating hearts?”

“Bad magick in dat, yis. Very bad. When it eat eart, it tinks it absorbs strengk of enemy. It intead becomes tumting else, tumting warped. It eats earts cause it ates. It ates cause it is sad. It is sad cause it is afraid. Dat is why it eats mot sacred part of child.” The _chödpa_ shook his head. “Its spirit is broken. It not water orse anymore.”

Jack frowned. “It's not a kelpie?”

The Tibetan bowed again, solemn as the gravestones outside his tent. “It was, now it is tumting wrong. 'atred and sadness turns it intide out.” The gaze grew sly. “A little like you.”

Jack's eyebrows shot up into his hair. “Like me? I'm not—” He fell quiet. The little man's gaze was unblinking, boring into him. Jack suddenly knew the answer; he had known all along. “My magic,” he murmured, looking at the silent staff in his lap. He remembered the cave and the horrible feeling of panic when he couldn't summon a single snowflake. His brow furrowed, thoughts racing. The _chödpa_ hummed with approval, rocking. 

“You were one ting, now sorrow and anger make you anutter. You cannot defeat water orse like dat.”

“What do I have to do?” Jack asked, head still awhirl from the implications. 

“Dah ard part.” The little Tibetan sighed. “I chose to fix dah utter firt cause 'e was easy.”

“Ea-easy?” Jack said, sputtering. He wanted to laugh in disbelief. Did this old codger not remember what happened last night? Pitch had practically torn the tent apart when he fled. “We had to hold him down. He almost killed you.”

The _chödpa_ shook head. “No, no. 'is pain was part of body. Your pain part of _spirit_. You need to go on spirit quest to unblock your magick. You mut face water orse dere.” 

“A quest.” Jack was unamused. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted. This was North and his stupid dolls all over again. “I have to go on a quest. With my spirit.”

The other didn't seem to pick up on the Guardian's heavy skepticism, nodding gravely. “Face its spirit. Only den can you regain balance and peace. Utterwise, you no use magick of winter. You done. Feenished. Your anger and pain will detroy you.” 

The shaman punctuated _anger_ and _pain_ with jabs to Jack's forehead and chest, the gnarled, arthritic fingers surprisingly forceful. The young Guardian rubbed the spots where they stabbed him. Jack tried to make himself buy into this. Spirit quest? Spirit fight? It sounded far-fetched, even to him. If the shaman would just give him instructions on how to kill the not-kelpie, or even point out its weaknesses . . . _But that would be too easy,_ Jack thought. Jaime's phantom voice whispered, _What's the matter, Jack? Can't see the forest for the trees?_ He frowned. The hole in his chest ached. He looked away, still rubbing it. 

“Take care, child,” the _chödpa_ said. “Dere is great danger in dis. If its spirit overcomes you, yours will never return to body. You will sleep for time witout end.”

“I knew there was a catch,” Jack muttered. In a louder voice, he asked, “Why can't you just tell me how to beat it? Wouldn't it be so much easier on everyone?” 

“You mut do dis. I cannot do dis for you. You mut be stronger dan its atred and sadness. You mut accept your greef. Only den can you regain your centre.”

“Riiight. Okay. Spirit quest. Danger of never waking up. Gotcha.” _This is insane,_ he thought. He felt he was in one of those old western movies he and Jaime used to watch late at night when the parents were asleep. This was the part where the heroic cowboy went to the Native American medicine man and fasted for seven nights, waking up on the eight morning to discover the earth-shattering epiphany that would destroy his old enemy. The rest of the movie showed the hero engaging and vanquishing evil for good. Jack never really liked those parts. He wanted to tell Jaime real life wasn't always like that, that for three hundred years epiphanies and good deeds had done little to break his aching loneliness. But Jack could never bring himself to quell the boy's idealism. Jaime had been convinced of a world where good triumphed evil, where if the hero worked hard enough, sacrificed enough, he would prevail. _You didn't expect evil to win this time, did you,_ Jack thought dully. _You didn't expect to die._ He gritted his teeth, keenly aware the little old man was regarding him with an unreadable expression. He was waiting, the Guardian realized, for him. Jack nodded, jaw tight. What other choice did he have?

“Okay. Let's do this.”

The Tibetan man bowed low. For the next several moments he was a bustle of motion, re-arranging pots and clearing areas. He rolled out a blanket richly decorated with rare porcupine quills from the southeast and shells brought all the way from the Caspian sea, each arranged in ornate patterns. In the flickering firelight they appeared to dance, each casting a tiny shadow. Jack watched with mounting trepidation. He had no idea what to do on a 'spirit quest', and little less what to anticipate, except for the worse case scenario. This little shaman was about as much help as the Man in the Moon was. He wished he could make a snowstorm to blow off some of the pent-up anxiety building inside of him. He was almost relieved when the _chödpa_ beckoned him over to the blanket. Jack glanced at him. 

“So, uh, where do I. . .?”

“Lie down. Feet dere, yis.”

Jack did as he was told, trying to ignore the heavy sense he was deliberately laying his neck across a guillotine blade. The seashells bit into his back, shoulders, and calves. As the tent's ceiling stared down at him he suddenly had the urge to see the night sky. Then the man's gnarled, leathery hands were covering his eyes, and he saw no more. He could hear the _chödpa_ chanting somewhere above him in a language he had no hope of understanding. It was oddly comforting; Jack listened to its fluid song, his body relaxing. This wasn't so bad. As time went on the seashells didn't seem to bother him as much. The chanting seemed to grow faint, which confused the immortal teenager. He blinked behind the human hands and found he could see dim shapes. At first he thought he was seeing the inside of the tent. He realized it wasn't the tent at all, but a rocky floor. _A cave,_ his instincts told him. _I'm in a cave._ He was laying face-down, face pressed to the ground. Dim, stunted light was coming somewhere to his left. He lay there for a moment, trying to get his bearings. The chanting was gone, along with the shaman. The longer Jack lay there the more he realized he couldn't hear anything. No wind. No fire. He couldn't even hear himself breathe, as if he were in an vacuum. 

“Hello?” he said. 

He was relieved he could speak, but his words were flat and dead to his ears. He sat up, cautious, instinctively reaching for his staff. It was nowhere. He was alone. It looked like he was at the dead-end of a tunnel, its ceiling low and squat. There was a small opening dozens of meters away. He walked towards it, half-ducking to avoid hitting his head. It was eerie not to even hear his footsteps. He stepped out of the tunnel with a mouse's caution, looking around before clearing the tunnel. For a moment he stared at the barren wasteland, uncomprehending. For a single instant he was reminded of those infrared photographs Jaime had been so crazy about, where the sky was dark and everything else shiny white. Jaime had explained to Jack the brightness came from the infrared lens picking up the sunlight's heat. The Guardian walked several feet, trying to understand how the sky was black but everything else stood out in startling clarity. Shadows were chiseled. The landscape brought to mind Antarctica. _It always comes back to Antarctica,_ Jack thought bitterly. Because there was no indicators of where he should go the Guardian picked a direction and started walking. Twisted ice floes passed by like giant beached whales, silent and looming. He ached for the comfort of his staff as he continued on, giving them a wide berth. 

He rounded a corner. 

A lake stood in front of him. Jack froze. He'd recognize it even if he were blind and dead and buried away. He spun around, realizing the Antarctica scene had fallen away without his notice. The world was still inverse, the sky above as black as tar and the surface of the lake white as salt. This was Burgess Park, before he had buried it in snow. Instinct told him to walk to the lake. He did so slowly, taking his time, wary for any horse-shapes. He stopped just short of the water's edge, toes barely touching the line. Not a sigh of air rippled its glassy surface. Jack's mouth thinned. The same animal instinct in his head told him to enter it, whispering, _It's down there._ He rubbed his chest but discovered he couldn't remember what it was to drown. He was sure he did days ago, but as he stood in front of the silent water, he realized the memory had no power here. It was simple to enter the lake— _It's more of pond,_ he thought, melting more than breaking through the surface. His body displaced not a drop of water. He simply vanished into it, sinking into its dark depths like a stone. It was dimmer here than in the open, murky. His feet walked along the bottom, disturbing nothing. Ghostly wisps of algae hung motionless, unmoving as he brushed past them. Jack could feel himself being drawn deeper, and he knew with soul-breaking certainty his enemy lived at the lake's rotten core. 

As he came close to the centre of the lake he saw a glow through the dimness. He slowed, jaw tight. It came from within a pile of algae-covered rocks, shimmering like aquarium lights despite the lack of water current. The mouth of the cave was wide enough for six of him. He walked through because he had no other choice, dread a pounding drum in his chest. He took three steps into the watery cavern before his eyes fell on the familiar form. The old panic and hopelessness welled within him. 

“No.”

Jaime looked up. He was as he had died, chest a gory mess of exposed rib and meat, his skin the colour of cheese. One of his arms were ripped off at the bicep, the white humerus peeking out. His new Keds were speckled with blood. _It's not Jaime, it's that kelpie,_ Jack thought, clinging to his sanity, but as the boy wiped his nose just as he'd always done in life, his certainty wilted. This was the spirit world. What if this was Jaime's soul, lost and trapped here by the kelpie? Or what if this was an elaborate trick, just as it'd been last time?

“Hi, Jack,” Jaime said. 

Jack shook his head. “You're not Jaime, you're the kelpie. Stop messing around!”

The boy was solemn, eyes shadowed holes from the inversion of lights and darks. He regarded the Guardian with an ill-fitting sadness, as if the expression was two sizes too big for the face. 

“Why do you keep calling me that?” he asked. “I'm Jaime. I'm right here.”

Jack groaned. “Stop it. That won't work on me this time.” 

Jaime frowned, hurt so naked and genuine flashing across his features the other felt his resolve crumbling. He looked so alive and real Jack took a step forward. There were so many things he wanted to say to his friend, so many things he wanted to ask. The boy in front of him even spoke the way Jaime did. If the kelpie was wearing the boy's skin, its mimicry was flawless. 

“Do you hate me now?” the boy asked, suddenly. 

“Why would I—” Jack stopped in mid-sentence and snarled. “Why do you keep doing that? Show yourself, damn you!”

“I'm right here!” Jaime cried. “Why are you yelling at me like that? Why are you being so mean?” 

“I'm not—I'm not trying—” The familiar agony was strickening. Jaime was too real, the confusion and desolation in his voice too visceral. Jack gripped the sides of his head, willing the nightmare to end. He never wanted to cause Jaime any pain, never wanted him to suffer. They had been friends, best friends, and Jack had loved the boy with such fierce protective devotion it _ached_ , some nights leaving him breathless from it, and the thought of Jaime wretched now wounded him straight to the core. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. It never was. They were supposed to watch old Westerns and have snowball fights and watch Sophie play with Bunnymund's Easter eggs. 

“Are you happy now?”

“I don't understand,” Jack said in misery. “How could I possibly be happy?” 

Jaime began to cry. Tears were black streaks on his white face. He cried as a child would, taking big whoops of air, shoulders quaking. “I wanna see my mom. I wanna see Sophie. Why are you doing this to me? Why aren't you letting me go home? I thought you were my friend.”

Jack shook his head. He had fallen on his knees, imploring. “I'll always be your friend, Jaime. Please, please stop crying. I'm here for you. I'm here now.”

“You weren't there when that horse came. I called for you but you never came. It's your fault I'm here. Your fault, all your _fault_.”

Jack was slipping. The hole in his chest was yawning, threatening to swallow him whole. _Yes,_ the still small voice said, _yes._ He watched as Jaime shuffled closer, still sniffling, black holes never leaving his. There was eternity in that gaze, a deep vast expanse of nothingness. It called to him, whispering _I can take your pain away._ It promised peace, murmured sleep.It seemed to grow as Jaime approached him, engulfing the young, solemn face. The Guardian tried to remember the shaman's warnings but it was hard to think in the enormity of all that darkness. He was sloughing through molasses uphill. He could feel himself growing small and faint. Jaime was reaching for him, fingers stretched like taffy, longer than humanly possible. A terrible smile was growing on the face, teeth translucent as fishbones behind thin lips. 

Jack was teetering on the brink of infinity when a voice slithered by the shell of his ear. It came from nowhere and everywhere. He heard it as if waking from a deep sleep, slowly at first, then with gathering recognition. 

“Fight it, you fool,” Pitch hissed. “Your guilt is making it strong. It's using it against you. The boy's death was never your fault. Fight!” 

“Not my fault,” Jack murmured. 

Jaime hesitated, hand still outstretched. 

“Not my fault,” Jack repeated, louder. He looked up into the eyes were both Jaime's and not Jaime's and saw the blackness was still there, there but no longer empty. The Guardian could see shapes in it now, dim writhing forms. Jaime took a step back, wavering, smile faltering. It morphed into a furious snarl when the other stood up. 

“It wasn't my fault!” Jack said, shouting. “It was never my fault! The kelpie killed you, not me! _I didn't kill you!_ ” 

Jaime stumbled back, mouth flaring wide as Jack ran forward, fist pulled back for a punch. Before his hand could make contact the boy began to break apart, his skin tearing off like paper as the form beneath him exploded free. Jack fell back, open-mouthed at the horror in front of him. It was equine in only the dimmest, most farthest sense. The body stood on too many legs, each bending backwards and frontwards, some forking out of others' knees and merging into others. Cloven hooves sprouted from the neck stem, pawing at nothing. The chest was caved inward and Jack could see a mess of throbbing veins, some as thin as spaghetti and others as thick as thumbs. In the centre of the veins stood a horse head, its muzzle impossibly stretched, the jaw unhinged like a snake swallowing eggs. The horse head's eyes were poached white marbles, bulging out of their sockets. Inside the mouth were beating hearts. Every time the horse head opened its maw they would fall to the floor. They squirmed and bounced where they landed, as if struggling to return to their prison. The longer Jack stared in horror, the more he realized he could hear an unholy amalgamation of sounds come from the mouth. It kept gibbering in its seaweed voice _you killed me, you killed me,_ but Jack knew its illusion was broken at last. This sad thing was the kelpie's spirit, wilting under its own rotting weight. It squealed from time to time, and Jack thought he could hear unspeakable pain. Or perhaps that was his own, for the longer he looked, the more he could feel his tremulous grasp on reality slipping, because beneath it all he thought he could sense Jaime, but not as the kelpie intended, but really him. _It'll be okay, Jack,_ he thought he could hear, faint and sweet. _It's alright_.

He took a step forward, not understanding why he was stretching out a hand. 

The next instant came a horrid suckingsensation, as if a vacuum cleaner was slurping him up. He was rushing out of the cave, rushing out of the lake, and the next thing he knew he was blinking up at the night sky. For the longest moment he didn't move, staring into the void as if it could swallow him whole, listening to the slow sound of his breathing. For a moment he thought the stars were falling. One landed on his nose. It was a snowflake. It was snowing. Jack continued to blink, each dip of his eyelids as slow as a lizard's. How had he ended up outside? And why was Pitch leaning over him, hands on either side of his head, looking at him with the strangest expression on his face? Jack stared up at the Boogeyman, oddly unperturbed at their proximity, a curious sensation of emptiness permeating his limbs. He was floating, weightless. He could sleep forever.

He was unprepared for when Pitch slapped him, the blow hard enough to snap his head to the side. The hot sting of pain made him became aware of his tingling limbs; they were itching as if doused in funny-powder. His skin felt tight, as if it had shrunk six sizes since the last time he checked. He was slapped again, head rocking to the other side. This time there was enough of him coherent to grunt his protest. 

“Gerroff,” he said, clumsy hands lifting to bat the other away. “Tha hurt.” He struggled to sit up. When he did his eyes went wide. He was halfway to his feet before realizing he was trying to run. He tripped and stumbled, tried to rise then fell again, legs as clumsy as a minute-old colt's. In the end he simply sat there, staring at his hands, gulping air and blinking like a fish. For a single blissful moment he was unaware, oblivious as the grass by his feet. Then the weight of memories were crashing down on him with a tsunami's kiss, ripping the numbness away. 

“Oh,” Jack said. Something was dripping down his cheeks and freezing there. He stared ahead, unseeing. “ _Oh._ ” His chest began to heave. He clutched at his hoodie, as if to stem the speechless grief, but it overflowed the whole of him, pouring out of every corner of his soul. The dam, which had been so carefully constructed, broke. For the first time since finding Jaime he began to cry, his thin shoulders racking with every keen. Once he started he couldn't stop, each sob bring on others with such increasing violence he was soon inconsolable, his howls echoing across the Tibetan steppe like a wounded animal's, primal and without end. Pitch made no move to comfort or hold him, but neither did he leave, hovering like a dark shadow as Jack mourned the loss of the boy who had finally brought joy to his world. 

 

…

 

_TBC_


	6. vi

At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the morning you must cross the river and go in to the mountains and do terrible things and maybe die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is not.  
\- Tim O'Brien, _The Things They Carried_

 

_._

 

Jack went to Pitch in the early morning, before the grassy steppe woke itself from its cold slumber. The little shaman was nowhere to be found, but the winter spirit wasn't worried. The Nightmare King was standing amongst the burial mounds, lost in thought, tall and sinuous. He had said nothing to Jack since the spirit world, gliding away when the worst of the Guardian's crying turned to wet, heavy breathing, leaving Jack to collect himself. The immortal teenager had been grateful. He had been a mess, emotionally and physically. The mourning had left him drained and hollowed out, but it was a clean feeling, as if he'd removed something rotting inside. It seemed natural to seek Pitch out afterwards, though now, as he stood feet away from his unlikely savior, the uneasiness returned. Pitch was no longer the colour of gray milk but his customary charcoal tones, his lines sleek and crisp. The bitten hand was whole, without a single mar. He half-turned when he percieved Jack's approach, his expression as placid as still water.He, too, seemed subdued, though as to why, the Guardian couldn't define the answer. 

“You saved me,” Jack said, when the silence between them had stretched. “Back there, I mean. In the spirit place.”

Pitch shrugged, insouciant. The sunrise was backlighting him gold, matching the metal of his irises. “What can I say? I abhor competition. Only I can make your life miserable.” He smiled at Jack. It was sharp around the edges. He gave his head a little twitch, a crow casting for carrion. “Isn't that what the Boogeyman is for?” 

To Jack's surprise he found himself smiling back, though his was softer, more inward. Let Pitch keep his true reasons, then. In all honesty, Jack didn't know why he saved him. Maybe it'd be best if he didn't know. A little silence fell between them, and it dawned on him neither were in a hurry to break it. Jack frowned and looked away, thinking of what he'd seen in the lake. The kelpie's spirit had been a thing of horror, bloated and warped past all recognition. It had grown evil through its diet of children hearts, and Jack saw now it would be a mercy to kill it. On some dim, instinctive level he had connected with its pain in the spirit world, had sensed how it was trying to fill in its own emptiness. _I could've turned out like it,_ he thought. His frown deepened. He understood what he must do, but it now it seemed to leave a sour taste in his mouth. He suddenly had to ask. 

“Pitch, is it possible to kill and not be—” _Like you_ , he was going to say, but it seemed cruel. “—and not be bad? Can you kill for the right reason?”

Pitch used the tone he favored when Jack asked a particularly stupid question, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. “There is no such thing as a 'right reason',” he said. “There is only killing. There is, however, always a right reason for the person doing the killing.”

Jack stared at dark spirit, resisting the urge to rub his forehead. “Right. You lost me.”

Pitch began to walk among the dead, hands clasped behind his back, ducking prayer flags now and then. Jack had to jog to keep up. “I once knew of a human who slaughtered millions of his own kind because he was convinced he was doing the world a favor. Dead convinced. Now those were dark days, ha! I was almost drunk off it! The despair, the terror.” A wistful, hungry expression crossed Pitch's face. “Now that was the good life. So much misery. All I had to do was _whisper_ and the humans would start fearing their fellow man. There is nothing like the fear a man has for his own kind, Jack, nothing. It took me very little effort for some fun, almost none at all.” He pulled away from his reminiscing with a little disinterested wave of a hand, sniffing. He became brisk. “He would've kept doing it, too, had he not shot himself in the head. Was he right to kill? He thought so. His enemies thought it right to kill him. So no, Frost, if you're going to kill something, accept you take a life and that is that.”

Jack stared at him. “Why are you like this?” he asked, honestly caring. He stopped walking. Pitch stopped as well and turned to him, holding him still with a predator's focus, impassive. “Why do you like it so much when people are hurt or afraid?” 

A bitter pall fell about the Nightmare King. He drew himself to his looming height, rounding on Jack with a curled sneer. “Why? Because I am the Boogeyman. It's what I _do._ I am the balance for all the sparkling goodness of the world, the yin for the yang. If not for me, children wouldn't yearn for the morning. But the Guardians like to forget that,” he said, growl softening to a murmur, as if speaking to himself. His gaze was inward, passing through Jack as if he were composed of translucent silk. “They think a world made of pure happiness is better than one with a hint of fear. Little do they know without me there would be no real happiness. Because, well. Being happy all the time wouldn't be much of a life, now would it.”

“I guess not,” Jack said, warily. He supposed it made sense, but this was Pitch. There was always something twisted about the logic. 

“I knew you'd understand,” Pitch said, suddenly looking at the winter spirit with shrewd appraisal, pupils shrinking when a blaze of sunlight hit them. When he spoke it was in a tone he rarely used, the one when he was pleased with Jack. His expression softened. “There is a darkness inside of you, too. You're not disillusioned like the others. I saw your work in that park. It was messy, of course,” he said, wrinkling his nose, grimacing, “unconscionably sloppy, but the intent was true. The other Guardians won't do it. They don't like getting their hands dirty. But you do. You're unafraid to kill.” 

Jack shifted from one leg to the other, ducking under Pitch's approval. “I didn't like myself when I was like that,” he said. “I wasn't me.”

Pitch looked down the length of his nose and gave a little _hnn,_ but said nothing more. Jack continued walking, hoping to clear his head from the heavy subjects. After a moment he could feel Pitch following him, his footfalls soundless despite the gritty soil they were treading. It were in moments like these the winter spirit was reminded Pitch wasn't like his Guardian friends. He was a different breed all together, uncountably old, a creature who yearned for the dark places of the world instead of the bright ones. Jack sometimes felt like a naïve child compared to the shadow, and perhaps he was. He'd spent more time with the Nightmare King than ever before, and still he felt he'd only scratched the tip of the iceberg of Pitch's essence. His mouth twinged. That was, if he wanted to spend more time. His thoughts once again traveled back to Antarctica, remembering Pitch extolling his virtues and describing how _everything, everything!_ could've been covered in black ice. Left unchecked, the Boogeyman was dangerous. He'd always be. For some reason that saddened Jack. It was as if each stood in a course with no hope of change, forever trapped by their nature. He shook his head and glanced at the staff in his hand. The wood was as lifeless as it had been at the Ural mountains. He could feel magic hovering just below the skin, tickling, but nothing more. He sighed and squinted into the sun. It was cresting the soaring mountains, fully morning. Somewhere in the distance the yak lowed its lonely cry. 

“It was inevitable,” Pitch said, breaking the silence. They were walking side-by-side now. Prayer flags flapped in a rising breeze. 

“What was?” Jack asked, wary again. 

“That boy's death.”

Jack didn't need Pitch to clarify which boy he was referring to. As always the subject of Jaime left his hackles raised. “What do you mean?” he said, hoping Pitch understood he was walking on thin ice. 

“He would've grown and eventually forget,” the Nightmare King said, nonchalant, staring above Jack's head into the space beyond. “Children are fickle. Why do you think it was so easy for me to break their faith in the Guardians in the first place? All it took was one unchanged tooth, one failed egg hunt, and they were all convinced there were no such thing as Guardians. It was so perfect. I was so . . . so close.” He fell quiet, a morose, tenebrous shadow crossing his face. 

“Jaime wasn't like that,” Jack said, a little too loudly. 

The Boogeyman stopped walking. His stare was very heavy. It pinned the immortal teenager under its pitiless regard. “Very well,” he said, soft and dangerous. “Let's say the boy continued believing in you. How many years would've that lasted? Seventy? Eighty? Human lives are but a flicker; blink and they're gone. He would die all the same, and then once again you'd be all alone.”

Jack regarded the Nightmare King as if truly seeing him for the first time. “Is that why you don't make friends?” he asked, spearing the dark creature with a remorseless look of his own. “So you won't get hurt when they're gone?”

For a heartbeat Pitch stared at him, face slack. Then he made a sharp _tch!_ sound. “We're not talking about me,” he said, and though the Boogeyman didn't stir an inch Jack could sense him withdrawing, pulling away. When the young Guardian continued walking Pitch followed, but neither spoke again. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

The Tibetan mastiff was growling at him again, baring its teeth in sullen flashes. Pitch whirled on it, shooting it his widest, most deranged smile, teeth and all. He chuckled when it fled, bushy tail tucked low. He drew up to his full height and caught Frost rolling his eyes.Pitch shrugged, unrepentant. Animals never did like him. They were closer to their instincts than humans were, and could sense his aura of danger and malice like grubs under their fur. Cats were fun to spook: they arched and hissed in the most delightful of ways, their slitted pupils swelling with fear. Creatures avoided him when they could, and it amused him when the brute thought it could scare him, the Nightmare King, away. He flicked a glance Frost's way. The child was pale, but he'd always been on the whiter side. He had been quiet since the walk through the burial grounds, staring across the Tibetan plateau with a lost, inward expression. His words plinked in Pitch's mind unbidden, disturbing his peace.

_You saved me._

How carefully Frost had spoken, how restrained, as if one wrong inflection would've upset him. The dark spirit had steeled himself for the question sure to come, dreading it, but was relieved and a little surprised when it never came. Not directly, anyway. Pitch heard it buried under the neutral layers as if painted in red: _Why? Why did you do it?_ The Boogeyman didn't know. He didn't know why he strode back into the tent. After the utter excruciationhe'd suffered, he'd been convinced he'd never step another foot in there again. It was hazy to remember it, now. The blinding white torture had nearly torn his mind from its hinges. He couldn't recall fleeing across the steppe on the fearling, or how he ended up in a mountain pass, shivering as if from some internal fever. It had taken him a full day to regain his bearings. Despite himself, Pitch had been surprised his hand healed. He'd been so sure the kelpie's bite was beyond the shriveled exorcist's powers. It meant only one thing: his pitiful tether to Frost was broken. His hand was cleansed. It should've been easy to leap across his Nightmare and wheel away, but something undefinable, something without name, made him turn the reins around and spur the fearling back to the damn _chödpa._

Even before entering the tent he sensed what was taking place. There was an imbalance in the air, like the heavy scent of ozone, one he rarely encountered but never forgot. When Pitch walked in he took one look at the still, unmoving upturned face and the human's grimace and saw its fear as clearly as he would his own reflection: _His spirit is losing._ Pitch had torn the winter spirit from the gnarled hands and threw Frost outside. How the child had flopped on the ground in a boneless heap, his body a soulless puppet's. It had been almost easy to flip him on his back and grab the unresisting head. It was like slipping into a dream, because dreaming was only a step above the spirit. He went deeper, deeper than he'd ever liked going, and had found the kelpie's soul almost upon Jack, ready to devour him whole. A rage had filled the Boogeyman then, fury at the child's utter stupidity and at the kelpie's sheer gall. Greater creatures of darkness than it had tried to destroy the young Guardian's spirit and failed, himself included. It would take real artwork to destroy the child's soul; the kelpie's attempts of using Jack's guilt were pitiful and ham-fisted at best. 

It was easier to pretend it never happened, of course. Easier to pretend he hadn't swept in at the last minute and saved Frost from being cast into limbo. Pitch brushed nonexistent dust from his arms and watched the exorcist shuffle out of its tent. The familiar enthrallment and revulsion filled him as he regarded the human who communed with darkness of the world. Though the deep animal core of him yearned to be seen, acknowledged, it still felt odd for an exorcist, of all things, to see him. 

Frost seemed to come alive besides him, waking from whatever stupor he'd fallen into. He, too, watched the tiny human approach them, clear impatience apparent in the cocky set of his shoulders. “You said if I went on the spirit quest, I'd be able to use my magic again,” he said, when the _chödpa_ finished its bows. 

Its wrinkled, hardboiled face lit up in a smile. “You are free ere,” it pointed to the winter spirit's heart, “but you are still blocked ere.” It pointed to his forehead. The dark, slanted eyes crinkled. “Dink lots of butter tea and eat yak meat. It good!”

Frost seemed to wilt. “Thanks, I think,” he grumbled. “But how am I supposed to, to you know, unblock my head? I need to fight the kelpie. I'm useless right now.”

“Useless? No. Not useless. Remember wat you saw in spirit quest; you will know wat to do when time comes. As for water orse, it is a demon. Demons ave earts. To kill it, you ave to crush its eart. Careful; it will try to trick you. You mut detroy the right one.”

Frost nodded, as grave as Pitch had ever seen. The winter spirit fixed a fleeting, insubstantial smile on his face. “Thanks. For everything.”

The exorcist chuckled. “You elped im, 'e elp you. You elp each utter, yis. Now for payment.”

“Payment?” Frost's ears perked. “Sorry, but we don't have human money.” 

“Dis stick is nice. I will ave it.”

Frost stared at the exorcist, appalled. His shocked laughter rang in the dry air. “You're not having my staff.”

“Give it to him,” Pitch said, suddenly. He stepped closer.

The winter spirit rounded on him, frowning, his disbelief melting into something harder. “What? But I need—”

“I said, _give it to him._ ” 

When Jack laughed again it was a bark of anger. “No! This is crazy! It's my staff. I need it for my magic.”

“You don't.”

Maybe it was the earnestness of Pitch's words, or their directness, but it seemed to strike a chord in Frost. He looked away, intense indecision on his face. The dark spirit hid his annoyance behind a smooth mask. The child's dependency on his staff had gone on for long enough. How did he think to grow in power if he remained tethered to its wooden comfort? Pitch saw the raw potential in the winter spirit, the sheer _talent,_ and it frustrated him with a vengeance to watch the child hold back. The Guardians were fools. They thought they could keep Frost contained, tamed; little did they know one couldn't harness the violence of winter. He hadn't been lying to Frost earlier: there was darkness inside of him, a delightful, refreshing sort. He'd seen it when Jack tried to avenge the Sandman. He'd seen it in the park. He'd seen it in the caves too, though at his expense. If Jack had accepted Pitch's offer in Antarctica, oh, the fear they could've spread. Pitch closed his eyes, shivering from the tantalizing vision. He reopened them and sighed. Only. If only. The young Guardian's was looking at him hard, the eyes shouting _Don't make me do this,_ but Pitch was implacable. He tempered his glare, manipulating it into a softened one he knew would get through to the child. _I believe in you,_ he said without speaking, stroking the heart of the winter spirit's anxiety, soothing it. He saw the exact moment when the immortal teenager submitted, and experienced a thrill of self-satisfaction. 

With a reluctance only matched at Antarctica, Frost relinquished his staff. The little human took it with a throaty croon, oblivious of the other's sullen glower. After a heartbeat, the winter spirit turned and scowled at Pitch. “Wait, how come you're not giving anything?”

The Nightmare King met the child's accusation with amusement, donning one of his maddening half-smiles. He could feel the heavy weight of the _chödpa_ 's regard, but pretended not to notice. “I've already paid.”

“Oh, yeah? With what.”

Pitch's eyes narrowed and he shot the little human a look. Exorcists were known for their exorbitant prices, and this one was no exception. Frost probably didn't realize the dark properties the kelpie's saliva held. He had paid, and in exquisite pain. 

“Believe me, Frost,” Pitch said, baring his teeth in distaste, “I have.”

Frost went quiet, for which the Nightmare King was grateful. Since saving the young Guardian in the spirit world he was filled with the itching desire to leave this place. He had had enough of exorcists and their ilk for a good long while. He could hear his fearling in the distance, its eerie neigh reminiscent of clinking chains in unilluminated hollows. It was the cry of home, and Pitch drew comfort from it. He had enough of this shadowless expanse; he could almost feel himself smoking in the pitiless sunlight. He yearned for his lair, even for the twisted bronze globe and its tiny molten suns. 

“ _Kha-leh shu,_ ” said the Tibetan. Pitch didn't like its knowing smile, but knew better to rebuff its curtesy. 

“ _Kha-leh phe,_ ” he said, tone neutral. _Goodbye._ His mouth twisted a little, as if he'd swallowed something bitter, knowing this would be the last time a human would see him for a long time. Without another look back he spun on his heel and began to walk away. After a moment he could hear Frost jog after him, his footsteps loud in the crumbly scree. 

“What'd he say?” Frost asked when they were out of earshot, but Pitch said nothing. It was too much fun leaving him guessing. He called his fearling over. It came over willingly, perhaps, too, wishing to leave this desolate openness. It pushed its muzzle into his palm as a dog would its master. He shushed at it, passing his healed hand over its pleated scales, enjoying the texture of corrupted dreamsand beneath his long fingers. It brought a small smile to his lips when he remembered the dawning realization on the Sandman's face, his anger when he finally understood what it was. How Pitch wished for a chance to observe it again. He shot a glance Frost's way, eager to see his expression. He expected another vehement denial like last time, and was a little disappointed when Frost didn't even seem to notice. He was being quiet again, his thoughts indrawn. Pitch found himself almost preferring the Guardian when he was bristling with violence, his scent as charged and electric as a blizzard's promise. He was an easier target to torment, then, his fears were easier to see. Pitch narrowed his eyes. Since there was no fun in taunting a willing participant, he fell quiet. He lifted himself up. The fearling shifted and pranced beneath him, eager to leave. 

Pitch looked down. Instead of using the nape of the hoodie, he found himself extending a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Frost reached out and accepted it. His grasp was cool and narrow, like chilled glass left in summer shade. The Nightmare King swung him onto the fearling and felt the other settle behind him. Pitch tried not to react to the sudden influx of cold along his spine and seat, nor when two pale hands encircled his middle. The sensation of another body pressed against him was foreign, dangerous, but all together not unpleasant. Pitch found himself relaxing into it by increments, indulging in the intimate contact. With a kick the fearling was launching into the air, zooming upwards with the force of a rocket, the Tibetan plateau swiftly disappearing. The sky was as clear as flame and the Nightmare raced along unimpeded. Soon they were above the mountains, above the earth, the sole creatures in the vast and lonely space of nothingness. 

Pitch lost track of the time as they flew, slowly becoming aware his passenger was leaning against him. At first the Boogeyman thought Frost had fallen asleep again. He looked over his shoulder, perhaps to mock him this time. He found Frost staring pensively out, cheek resting his shoulder blade, still held flush to him despite being awake and aware of what he was doing. Pitch quickly looked away before the Guardian could notice and dared not mention it. 

Frost's earlier words _Is that why you don't make friends_ gnawed at him a dog would a bone. Pitch bit back a snarl, hating the old, familiar emptiness inside of him. What would the winter spirit know of friendlessness? At least he, for the brief months, had a child who looked up to him, saw him as a confidant, a family. But what could he have? He was supposed to be the monster under the bed, the demon in the closet. What child, in their right minds, would be friends with the Boogeyman? Not that Pitch would allow one the chance. They were too soft, too idealistic, too convinced the world was a bright and happy place. He despised and envied them. 

He was pulled away from his brooding when Frost stirred behind him. “No,” he said. “Not the Pole. Head towards Burgess.”

“Oh? Don't want to tell your little friends all you've learned?” Pitch asked, mocking. He hid a shudder of delight at Jack's next words. 

“No. The kelpie's mine.” 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Pitch landed the fearling in the park, banking it with a falcon's grace. It was late in the afternoon in Burgess, the sun casting gold shadows on the grass and bushes. A pair of jays flew off, squalling their scolding cries. Jack climbed off the Nightmare and looked around. Though the summer heat had done its work, some snow still lingered beneath the tree boughs, silent gray reminders of the first disastrous fight. Jack forced himself to look at the bent branches and wilted flowers, knowing their deaths had been at his hands. _There'll be another death today,_ he thought, and though there was no anger in the thought, there was no remorse, either. The shaman's words _Remember what you saw in the spirit world_ resonated inside of him, turning over and over in his mind in great, slow circles. He would be as old as Pitch and never forget what he'd seen. He snorted to himself. _I still can't believe I gave my staff._

He must've spoken out loud because Pitch glanced at him sideways. “You have the power of winter,” he said coolly, “not the power of a magic stick. Unleash yourself.”

Unleash this, unblock that. Jack shook his head. There was always something he had to do, something he had to fix. “Yeah. Sure.”

He began to walk through the park, feet following the old paths he used to take with Jaime. Though he tried to keep his head forward, it was hard to ignore the places he'd made memories with the boy and the others here. There was the water fountain he froze a kid's tongue to, there, the home of the impromptu skating rink. It was an odd feeling to walk through the abandoned park. Normally it was brimming with late afternoon picnic-goers, dog-walkers, and hordes of children. It was as quiet as a ghost town now, the solitary trees cold and unfriendly. His magic sang under his fingernails, humming beneath the skin. Pitch lagged behind, hovering like the dark shadow he was. Neither of them said anything when the lake came into view. Jack's mouth tightened. There were police _caution! do not cross!_ tape all around, which the winter spirit ducked with casual ease. There would be nothing to hold him back now. He had thought about waiting for the other Guardians, but this felt too right. He had to do this. The stillness of his mind permeated through his limbs as he picked up a stone and threw it as hard as he could into the lake. It sunk beneath the surface with a small splash, ripples spreading out in tiny rings. Pitch seemed content to watch, hanging back. Jack ignored him. He ignored the sun in the trees and the shadows on the ground. All what mattered was the kelpie. 

It came, as Jack had expected. Its long head emerged in the exact spot he'd thrown the rock. For some reason it had only one bleached white eye. It stared straight at him with it. The head disappeared and re-appeared feet from the water's edge, its muzzle melted well beyond the conformations of a normal horse, as if made of wax and left over a fire. It stretched its heavy lips back in a ghastly smile, needle teeth glinting in the late afternoon light. The Guardian was glad it abandoned Jaime's form. Perhaps it knew it was useless now. He saw it and not saw it; beyond its physical shape was its bloated, groaning spirit, bent on too many legs. _You killed the wrong kid, horse,_ Jack thought.

Its ears rotated, landing on the Nightmare King in the background. “Boogeyman,” it said, and Jack could hear the undercurrent of angered surprise. Its one eye grew bigger. “Still around, are you?”

Pitch affected a mock bow, matching the kelpie's frown with a leer of his own. “I aim to displease. I still have to thank you for my hand.”

For a split moment it seemed indecisive, as if fighting both the Boogeyman and the winter spirit hadn't been part of its plan. Then it noticed Jack didn't have his staff. Its jaws opened impossibly wide and it let out a shrill nails-on-chalkboard scream. It exploded out of the water on six legs, muscles rippling as it charged forward, ears pinned back. Jack rolled like a paratrooper to avoid its slashing hooves. A pained squeal sliced the air as Pitch lashed a whip of corrupted dreamsand at it. The kelpie reared, pawing the air, black coat soaked with water. The reek of black mud clung about like carrion gas. Jack popped to his feet, watching as the Nightmare King engaged the water horse. He seemed to move with an even greater grace than when he fought Sandy, his whip singing in the air, catching the horse's face and shoulders with a cobra's inerrant precision. He was relentless, striking again and again despite the cries of pain.

“It's afraid of you!” Pitch shouted to Jack. His eyes seemed feverish. His lips were pulled back in a manic smile, alive with the fire of battle. “It fears what you could do. Hear that, little pony? Let's have some fun!”

The kelpie pealed its fury. It charged at Pitch, but the Nightmare King seemed to be everywhere. He dodged and ducked, bleeding away like smoke one instant then appearing around a tree the next. At last the kelpie stopped chasing the shadow and snorted, its six legs stamping. It turned its gaze Jack's way, its muzzle almost dripping down to its chest. Its malleable lips stretched. 

“The boy shrieked when I bit off his arm. He called for you in the most pitiful of ways.” It spoke in Jaime's voice, Jack realized. It was taunting him, trying delve under his skin like a burrowing grub, but that wouldn't work either. Jack was filled with pity, grief, and anger, but the initial raw rage had been tempered since the Tibetan steppe. Pitch had been right all along: it couldn't be his fault. Bad things happened to good people, and Jaime had been victim to the unfairness of life. The last great weight fell away from his shoulders, releasing him from its burden. _It was never my fault._ He rushed at it, dodging its swiping hooves to grab fistfuls of mane. In a move reminiscent to Pitch's mounts, he swung himself on. He became instantly aware of the smooth, sloping withers, the silky coat. It wasn't unlike riding a Nightmare. He found he couldn't move, but he had prepared for that. The kelpie reared, trumpeting a triumphant cry. Before it could whirl its head around to bite the winter spirit Pitch was there, lashing dreamsand at it. Squirming white blood splattered the ground as the dreamsand gouged into its side. The kelpie withstood two more attacks before it was wheeling around, thundering towards the lake, Jack still firmly stuck. The Guardian braced himself as the kelpie crashed into the lake, huge sprays of water sluicing over him. Then the water was over his head. The world became a flurry of bubbles and roaring water currents. 

Jack opened his eyes to a green, murky world. His lungs twinged before he relaxed into it, the ancient pain easing its chokehold around his throat. He concentrated on nothing else but the form beneath him, hugging into it, feeling the muscles bunch and ripple between his legs, feeling the wispy mane curl around his fingers. _I am winter,_ he thought. _And you will burn._ Flames could scorch and melt, but cold froze unprotected flesh in the cruelest of ways, stiffening living tissue into dead, wooden meat. Jack pictured it now, clutching the dark truth of his power. It was nothing more than a whisper of desire, one he would've sent his staff. He screwed his eyes shut. _Burn!_

The magic sang.

Bubbles erupted from its mouth as the kelpie screamed in pain. It lurched and bucked beneath him as blood-numbing cold seeped into its skin. Water began solidifying into a soupy slush all around. The horse whirled its head on its neck stem, mouth impossibly wide. Jack clung onto its bottom jaw, gripping with all the force he had. His magic fought to get out as if a dam had been broken. He had to but imagine the power of winter and within seconds the horseflesh hardened. Soon it was nothing but a frozen, brittle piece of meat. The kelpie tried to shake its head away but Jack began wrenching at it until, with a sharp underwater _crick_ , the bottom jaw tore away. A furious stream of bubbles rose as the water horse screeched, white eye rolling in its socket. Without waiting for it its retaliation Jack stuck an arm into its gaping mouth and forced a blast of ice down its gullet. 

Jack was suddenly free-floating. He looked down and saw the kelpie galloping deeper into the lake, struggling to gain distance in the slush. Fleeing. It was fleeing him. Its jaw was slowly sinking, translucent teeth catching the sunlight from the surface. There was no other choice. Jack began to swim after it, frog-kicking to pick up speed. Instinct told him where to go, because he'd been there before. When he saw the familiar formation of rocks his eyes tightened. Memories of the spirit world rocketed through him. _No,_ he thought. _It won't be like last time._ It would have to be; he didn't have Pitch to save him now. 

The kelpie was waiting for him when he swam into the underwater cave. Like a cornered animal it rounded on him, baleful eye glowing white in the murk. Its tongue drooped from its yawning throat, lolling like a ribbon. White, wriggling blood floated from its torn flesh. Its mane danced around its head like an inky halo in the unseen water currents. It pawed the mud of the lake's heart, throwing up clouds of silt. Soon there was so much debris in the water Jack couldn't see his hands in front of him. He looked around, desperate for some visibility. He blasted the water with bullets of ice, hoping to hit the kelpie with a lucky shot. He barely turned in time before something was crashing into him with a bulldozer's force, pinning him into the cave wall. Slimy algae caressed his skin as the silt cleared enough to show the kelpie's mangled face. The face disappeared and suddenly Jack found himself wedged between the kelpie's side and the rocks. It had learned; this time it kept its head clear away from the Guardian's reach. Slowly, inexorably, without remorse, it began to lean into Jack, crushing him into the rocks. The winter spirit tried yelling and squirming, but it was no use. He was stuck, and quickly losing sensation in his chest. 

A stream of bubbles exploded from Jack's mouth as he conjured up an ice dagger. He stabbed it again and again into the horse's side, white clouds of blood spurting into the water, tiny squiggling worms escaping into the silt. The kelpie didn't stop its compressing, bearing down on Jack like a mountain. Pain was building in the Guardian's torso, but he didn't dare stop. When the hole was big enough he used both hands to crack it wider. Ribs snapped and buckled under his dagger. He waved the white clouds of kelpie blood away, trying not to scream in revulsion as the worms brushed by his cheeks and neck. There was little time left; he could feel his spine starting to squeal, rocks pressing into his back with unrelenting pressure. He stared into the crevice between the kelpie's ribs, watching the dozens of hearts beating up at him. 

_Which one?_ They all looked the same, down to the veins feeding the blood and oxygen to the pulsing, glistening muscle. He would have only enough time to destroy one before the kelpie popped him like a grape. 

_That one._

The Guardian stilled. It was Jaime's voice, the one from the spirit world, faint and sweet. It was almost inaudible. _It's that one, Jack._

The fear and despair bled away. The calm acceptance from before returned, and Jack knew then which heart Jaime's spirit meant. He reached into the hot, squelching mess, bypassing the decoy children hearts for the one to the side; it looked no different from the others, benign, but when he wrapped his fingers around it, the kelpie let loose a wailing keen. It tried to pull away, to escape, but it was too late. The winter spirit closed his hand around it and squeezed with all his fading might. It popped like a rotten tomato between his fingers. The kelpie shuddered against him as if electrocuted, scream cut short, then fell still, the relentless pressure morphing into dead weight. Jack gritted his teeth and shoved the horse away. There was no resistance; the carcass sunk and drifted to the cave's floor with the vitality of a log. Jack drifted along with it to the floor, wincing at the deep pain inside of him. He sat there on the lake bottom, the adrenaline of the struggle still pulsing through him. 

_It's over._

Jack slumped in exhausted relief. The white clouds still leaked from the carcass, but the intervals between them were greater now, slower, no longer powered by arterial pressure. As the silt settled he could see the carcass before him, its lacerated side standing out like a broken ship's hull. Pitch's voice _There is only killing_ slithered in his ear, soft and cruel, but Jack understood. There was no guilt in him as he regarded Jaime's killer, only a dim sadness. It was done. He closed his eyes. It was done. 

Slowly, still wincing at the pain in his chest and spine, the winter spirit frog-kicked to the underwater cave's entrance. He looked up and saw the faintest suggestions of sunlight above. _Up,_ he thought, and before he knew it he was exploding out of the lake, soaring high over it. He felt as clumsy as when he first learned how to use his powers; after some finagling he touched back down on the lake's tiny shore. He shook his head and a rainbow of droplets flew everywhere. It was sunset now, the trees awash with the fiery death of the day. The sky above was mélange of orange streaks and old blues. It would be dark soon. He looked around, hoping for one last whisper of his friend's voice, but as the silence remained unbroken, he at last understood the slim tether holding Jaime to this world was gone. His soul was at peace, free at last when the kelpie perished. He was truly dead, and would remain that way until for time without end. Jack sighed, staring out across the lake, thoughts slow and ponderous, the warm relief filling him with bone-weary fatigue. Though it was not yet moonrise, he tipped his head in a nod toward the moon's general direction. He guessed the other understood. With a creature that far removed from earth, the Man in the Moon probably had no trouble seeing the forest for the trees. 

Pitch glided into view, footfalls silent as falling snow. Amongst the trees and lengthening shadows he seemed at home, no longer a stain on the scenery, but an integral part of the landscape. The sunset highlighted the greasy spiked hair, giving him the appearance he was wearing a crown of flames. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression indolent. They took in the winter spirit's dripping appearance with slow, admiring passes. Jack felt like a bug beneath the heavy gaze. He tensed, watching the predator move closer through soaked white hair.

“Congratulations seems to be in order,” Pitch said at last, teeth sharp. He clapped his hands in a hollow mockery of applause. “Today, you've become a killer. I wonder, what your precious Guardians will say when they find out? Are they ready for your darkness?”

Jack ignored the obvious taunt for what it was and all the connotations attached to it, regarding the Nightmare King with a steady, clear gaze. “They'll probably be upset I didn't share the kelpie,” he said, shrugging. “Bunny especially. Or, you know, they could thank me. That's possible, too.”

Pitch's mood changed in a heartbeat. He shot Jack a tight smile, and there was something disappointed about it, something resentful. “So. That's why you think, is it?” he said. “And here I thought you'd learn.”

“Wouldn't be the first time you'd be wrong,” Jack said. Despite the bristling aura around the Boogeyman he didn't crouch in a fighting stance. He rested most of his weight on one leg, relaxing. Pitch seemed to take in his lack of fear and grew agitated. He began to cut back and forth, pacing in front of Jack in tight, precise jerks. The sunset had almost burned itself out, casting the Nightmare King in rich, deep shadows, completing him in a way the Tibetan plateau never could. 

“Just because I helped you on this little do-gooder's quest doesn't mean anything. I'm still going to have my revenge on you Guardians.” When he chuckled it was a sound without mirth, the colour of his robes. He bared his teeth like an animal would. “Don't look so surprised, Frost. You didn't really think I'd just turn all warm and sparkly after this, did you?” 

A ghost of a smile lifted Jack's lips, gone before it could really form. He still hadn't moved. “'Course not. Yin and yang, was it?”

Pitch's face slackened as his own words were echoed back to him. He stopped pacing and stood feet from Jack, lithe and sleek, his expression hidden in the growing shadows. When he spoke again his voice was low, full of promise. “Fear will one day return to the world, and there is nothing you or little friends can do about it.”

“When that happens, we'll be there to stop you,” Jack said, but even as the automatic, almost comforting words left his mouth, he realized they were dancing the same old steps despite the new song. _We did this together,_ he thought. The kelpie's death didn't belong to him alone; without Pitch, he would've failed a long time ago. Jack paused. Could they ever be more than enemies? _Friends_ seemed too strong a word, even in the sanctity of his mind, but neither did it seem as far-fetched as it had been days ago. Could one ever reach beyond the nature of the other? Jack was quiet, the reason for his heavy heart eluding him like smoke. At the first jingle of sleigh bells he craned his head up. _North,_ he thought. He could see the sleigh swimming in the air towards them, his friends perched on the red bow. A smile came to him, unbidden. When he looked back down Pitch was still there, still silent. As Jack looked into the other's bitter, sullen visage, he said, almost to himself, 

“I guess cold and dark do go together then, huh.”

 

.

.

.

 

_fin_


End file.
